


Dust Shalt Thou Eat

by ARealPip, Nix Laurel (NixLaurel)



Series: Trading Bodies [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Arguments, Aziraphale Defender of Humanity, Aziraphale's body doesn't do sex, Climate Refugees, Consensual Possession, Crowley in drag, Cursed Crowley, Destroying the Past and Making a New Future, Dining at the Ritz, Drag Queen in Soho, Drinking to Cope, First Time Eating, Food Porn, Gabriel is an asshole, Getting a Room at the Ritz, God's curse of the serpent is real. He can't eat., Good versus Evil is a crock of shit, Heaven is abusive, Immortal Patron of the Arts, Learning How to Accept Love, Learning How to Work Around Limits, M/M, Michael is cruel, No Betas -- all mistakes my own, Original character Artist, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, Peacemaker, Post-Canon, Romance, Sex, Talking to God, Trauma and recovery, Walt Whitman - Freeform, Wedding Rings, celebration, generosity, limits, serpent of Eden, tortured angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2020-10-12 01:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 69,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20555693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARealPip/pseuds/ARealPip, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixLaurel/pseuds/Nix%20Laurel
Summary: After the world doesn't end, Crowley and Aziraphale get a room at the Ritz and start working out what it means for them to be together.They can swap bodies and touch each other's souls, but their bodies interact with the world very differently from each other.  Crowley's body is cursed by God, and he can't taste food.  And Aziraphale, like all angels, doesn't experience sexual arousal.  Now that they are together, they can expand each other's horizons.  But relationships, even magical ones, are delicate and complicated, and being able to hear your partner's thoughts doesn't mean that you will agree on everything.Two magical lovers find  ways to heal each other, to escape their past, and to protect Earth from all those bastards in Heaven and Hell.





	1. Staying the Night

**Author's Note:**

> In Good Omens, you never see Crowley eating. My interpretation is that the Serpent of Eden really is cursed to eat dust. God doesn't pull her punches. It really sucks for our demon. 
> 
> This is a follow up story to a previous work I did where Aziraphale possesses Crowley and then pulls off a complete body-swap. They use sex in order to get the demon to let go of his body enough to make it work. 
> 
> In the world of this story, angelic bodies are not able to experience sexual arousal unless heaven requires them to procreate (As when Gabriel impregnated Mary). 
> 
> So both of our heroes are working with some serious limitations, and I want to explore how they work within and around those limits as they add new dimensions to their relationship.
> 
> This story involves themes of loving partners dealing with a sexual mismatch/sexual dysfunction. While I strive to handle the material sensitively, this is not necessarily an ace positive/ace friendly story. Read at your own risk.

Genesis 3:14_ And the Lord God said unto the serpent: "Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle and above every beast of the field. Upon thy belly thou shalt go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life. _ King James Bible

At their celebratory dinner at the Ritz, Crowley ordered the Beef Wellington. It was theoretically a dish for two, and Crowley, as usual, let Aziraphale maintain the polite fiction that they were going to share it. The waiter brought two plates, one of which remained unused. While Aziraphale ate, the demon slowly drank his way through most of a bottle of a very nice red and nodded appreciatively as the angel described the flavor combinations. This was how he had always shared meals with Aziraphale and Crowley didn't resent it in the least. 

Crowley was endlessly fascinated by how much enjoyment the angel got from his food, and after a few thousand years, he'd acquired enough expertise by proxy that he could talk reasonably well about all of the various flavor combinations. Talking about food delighted Aziraphale, and Crowley was happy to indulge him. He paid attention so that he could learn precisely what the angel liked to eat. He took pleasure in ordering for him from time to time. When out and about, Crowley enjoyed picking up little surprise treats for Aziraphale. Crowley had an excellent sense of smell, and he'd made a study of what smells corresponded to the flavors the angel liked best. Nowadays, he could sniff out an excellent bakery or takeaway place from four blocks away. With Armageddon in the rear view mirror, Crowley planned to start making daily use of his skill. He could spend the rest of eternity bringing good foods to his angel. 

Tonight, however, Crowley planned to change the normal progression of their evening. He did not rush Aziraphale through the appetizers or the soup or the main course. Crowley did not fail to bask in the rays of nearly physical warmth that the angel exuded as he made an unabashed and sensual exploration of each dish. But, yet, tonight Crowley was looking forward to when the angel was ready to be done with eating. There was, as of just yesterday, a new dimension of pleasure that he could now make available to his angel, and he was eager to explore it.

Aziraphale was thoroughly enjoying the way the crispy layered pastry cracked against the roof of his mouth to release the complex pate over his tongue. He let those flavors mingle just the right amount before he allowed his teeth to slowly sink into the butter-soft beef, releasing the acidity and the deep umami flavors to wash the pate towards the back of his mouth. He slowly rolled his tongue around his mouth to capture every flavor nuance and then swallowed reverently before making a noise of appreciation that was, he knew, very nearly indecent. Aziraphale knew exactly how demonstrative he could be before he would upset the staff at the Ritz, and he went right up to that line, because he was with Crowley, and he always wanted to show his appreciation of Crowley's meal selections as fully as he possibly could. 

Aziraphale would not skimp or rush through his enjoyment of everything his demon could offer him. Even tonight. Especially tonight. There was so much to enjoy. Not just the excellent food and the music, but also the newly safe intimacies, the brushing of fingertips, the pleasure of laying his hand atop Crowley's to emphasize a point in a story. 

What hadn't changed was the comforting familiarity of how they talked together. Neither had ever found a better conversational partner, and conversation, whether bickering or debating or telling stories, was one thing they could both enjoy equally well. Tonight was a night for stories. Even though the pair of them had not been apart for more than twelve hours at a time over the past few days, tonight's stories were as grand and dramatic as the stories they had shared at dinners enjoyed after centuries apart. There was suspense and terror and humor and pathos and all of it was sweetened by the sure knowledge that all stories ended here, with the two of them, safe, together, and free at last.

When the waiter brought the dessert menu, Crowley took it, perused, and set it facedown on the table. 

"What if," said Crowley, "What if we did something a little special tonight?"

"Your taste is impeccable, my dear," said Aziraphale. "I trust your choices completely."

"I mean, what would humans do on a night like this?"

"What do humans typically do after they defect from their warring sides, stop Armageddon, and escape the retribution of immortals?" said Aziraphale. He was teasing, because he could see that Crowley was starting to work himself up a bit. 

"Angel. Stop. I mean." The demon drummed his fingers on the table. "What I mean is... Humans wouldn't just go out to dinner and go home. They'd make a night of it. What I'm saying is, we could stay the night here. Get a room."

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a breath to help him adjust to the new and amazing reality that he now inhabited. But the pause seemed to frighten Crowley, so he began to rapidly fill the air with words, "It's okay, if you don't want.... I'm happy with whatever you want to do... I just thought... special night... but.... I mean.... I know you must be very anxious to check up on the book shop.... so another time then, no worries." 

Aziraphale nodded to himself and then a slow smile crept across his lips. "Yes," he said, "That will do nicely. Tell them to send dessert up to the room." He reached for the dessert menu. "I'll pick."

When the waiter returned, Aziraphale pointed to a few things on the dessert menu. Then Crowley pointed to a few things on the wine list, whispered in the man's ear, and handed him a card. Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap as the dishes were cleared away. Crowley motioned for another refill for their wine glasses. As the waitstaff left, Crowley leaned forward, caught Aziraphale's eye, and launched a story. Aziraphale picked up his wine glass and tilted it to his lips, timing his sips carefully so that he could laugh at all the right moments. Crowley was describing the crazy human that he had gotten directions from on his way to the airbase. It was an uproarious tale, the way Crowley was telling it. Later on, the angel knew, this story might be told again, and there might be another dimension to it. After 6000 years, they both knew that every true story contained multitudes. The demon expertly spun the story into what it should be for the occasion, and Aziraphale was shaking with mirth by the end. 

The waiter brought back the card and handed it and a room card to Crowley, bending to whisper in his ear again. The demon nodded. The waiter left.

"Is it really okay?" Crowley sucked in his upper lip. 

"It's perfect," said the angel. He put his hand, soft and warm, over the demon's. "Shall we, then?"

"Might be," said Crowley, "Might be a couple minutes before they get everything set up."

"We'll walk slowly."

Crowley nodded. He stood up, and the angel followed, lacing their fingers together. Crowley looked around at an entire roomful of humans who seemed completely unaware of the fact that the most exquisite creature on the planet was holding his hand in public. Forks were clinking gently on plates, a piano was playing, and there was low conversation. None of it stopped. It just kept on, and there was Aziraphale, smiling at him and holding his hand in the way that lovers do. 

And now the angel was leaning against him and whispering into his ear. 

"How slowly were you planning to walk, darling?", said Aziraphale. There was a smile playing about at the edge of his lips. 

"This is really all right with you Angel?", said Crowley, as they reached the hall.

"I'd have been rather offended if you hadn't gotten us a room," answered Aziraphale. He was happy. He was excited. He was looking forward to being able to share things that he had never been able to share with Crowley before now. And Crowley was looking tentative and starting to pull his hand away. 

Aziraphale refused to relinquish the demon's hand and gave a slight tug to pull him closer to him as he placed a kiss on his lips, right there in the crowded hall. Crowley pressed into the kiss, twisting their intertwined fingers together and bringing his other hand up to cup Aziraphale's cheek. The angel opened his lips and Crowley sucked on his lower lip and then slipped his tongue into the angel's mouth. Aziraphale leaned back against the wall and let the demon explore his mouth. One of his hands was pinned against his leg by Crowley, but he circled the other one around the small of the demon's back and pulled their bodies together. 

There was a sound behind Crowley and it startled them both. Aziraphale opened his eyes and spotted a concierge standing right there. The concierge raised an eyebrow, and the angel quickly disentangled himself while Crowley adjusted his sunglasses and then his clothes. 

"We were just heading to our room," said Aziraphale. 

"Will you need help finding it?" 

"Thank you, no, we were just heading to the elevators now." said Aziraphale. "Got a bit turned around." Then to the hall at large he said "So sorry." As he tried to step past Crowley, the demon took his hand, more chastely, but in defiance of dozens of sets of narrowed eyes. The people turned away quickly as he gazed at them from behind his sunglasses. There was a bit of a crowd at the elevator bank, but they ended up getting an elevator all to themselves anyway. 

There was no reason at all not to steal a kiss in the elevator, and so they did, pressing their bodies together for the all too short ride. They tumbled into a hall, and Crowley pulled a card out of his back pocket, scanned the sign on the wall, and lead them down a long corridor and around a corner. 

Crowley didn't bother to use the key card, but the door opened as they approached. "It's not big," he said, pulling the angel inside, "but it's very private." 


	2. Private Room

Aziraphale stepped into a room that was deeper than his shop and nearly as wide. It had multiple seating areas, a fireplace and a dining room table that could seat eight. The ceiling was lost in the flickering shadows that were cast by the three glowing candelabras sitting on the long table. The table was already set for dessert. There were three plates of confections. The first plate had a pink half dome which Aziraphale's expert eye recognized as the champagne panna cotta. The next plate contained a miniature choux pastry with a pastry creme filling. It was decorated with syrup and pistachios and sitting in a nest of spun sugar. The last plate contained a shiny chocolate cylinder decorated with flecks of caramel that could be cracked open to reveal layers of chocolate cake and pudding. Two glasses of champagne had been poured. There were two extra empty glasses. Seven more unopened bottles of wine of various types also graced the table. 

"Why don't we start with your dessert?", said Crowley. 

"I've had thousands of desserts in my life," replied the angel. He wrapped one hand around the demon's waist, and with the other, he took off his sunglasses. He set the sunglasses on a small table by the door, folding them one-handed, and stared into Crowley's golden eyes. 

If he was honest with himself, the angel was feeling a bit nervous about the next step in his plan for the evening. It was only yesterday that he had even discovered that he could possess another person's body. If he managed to pull it off, this would only be his third time putting his soul into someone else's body, and only his second time pulling Crowley's soul into his own body. Crowley's soul was not easy to control. It had powerful inertia. Last night, even when faced with his own imminent obliteration, the demon still required strong distractions, trickery and brute force before he would allow his soul to be moved to Aziraphale's body. Whether Aziraphale could manage to convince him to do it again, for an admittedly recreational purpose, was unknowable. And then there was Crowley's tendency to wrap his soul around Aziraphale's and cling to him. 

For Aziraphale, it was absolutely worth trying anyway, because he very much wanted to give Crowley an experience commensurate with the one that Crowley had shared with him last night. As an intermediary stage, before they managed to switch bodies, Crowley had allowed Aziraphale to share possession of his body. Then, while they were sharing, Crowley had done the most amazing things to their shared body, using just his hand. It had been the most intensely pleasurable physical experience of Aziraphale's life. 

Crowley had so often been unstintingly generous to Aziraphale, and most of the time he would accept nothing in return. This time, more than ever, Aziraphale desperately wanted to reciprocate. But he had no skill as a lover. Prior to last night, all of his knowledge in the area of sex had been acquired from books and conversations. And his information had mostly been about the emotions associated with sex. Since his own body hadn't the capacity for arousal, he foolishly hadn't bothered learning much about the mechanical aspects. He was well equipped to write a rhyming couplet about how his heart was fluttering, but he wasn't sure how to handle an actual erection, should he be faced with one. Throughout dinner, he had tried to think of how he might be able to give Crowley the kind of pleasure that he wanted to give to him. Then the answer had suddenly presented itself. Aziraphale was quite pleased with his idea. He just had to find the right way to explain it to Crowley. 

"Last night, you shared something amazing with me, and I want to share something in return," said Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale led them both through a door, which, fortunately, turned out to be the bedroom. It too had a high ceiling and a fire place and a chandelier. It was dimly lit by lamps scattered on several of the end tables around the room. It had a couch and a chair and a love seat around its fire place and a small seating area near the tall windows. In the middle was a king sized four poster bed with a cloth canopy on top. Aziraphale led them both to a cushioned bench that ran along the foot of the bed and motioned for Crowley to sit next to him. 

"There's something I want to try to do for you," said Aziraphale.

"That's not how this works, Angel. It's not tit for tat. It's about sharing. And I have more things I want to share with you." Crowley kneeled on the floor in front of him, kissed Aziraphale on the lips, and smiled fondly. 

"But after all these years, you deserve to finally--"

The demon cut him off. "Let me take care of you. Please."

Aziraphale tried one last time. "But I'd really like to do something special for you tonight."

"It's okay, Angel," said Crowley. "I've had thousands of orgasms in my life." He bent down and began to untie the angel's shoe. 

That was a distracting thought. "Thousands?", said Aziraphale.

The demon did a quick mental calculation. "Hundreds of thousands. Probably close to a million, come to think of it."

"You mean," said the angel, "You do that every day?"

"What? Have a wank? Yes."

Aziraphale tilted his head incredulously as the demon helped him out of his socks. He decided that there wasn't much harm in letting Crowley take the lead for a bit. If he wasn't mistaken, Crowley was going to take them both at least halfway to his own plan. 

"Well not today," continued Crowley. "Today was a bit busy, wasn't it?" Crowley gently grasped the angel's hands and pulled them away from where Aziraphale was starting to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. "I can get those." He separated the angel's legs and put himself between them. His knees were on the floor, but he was sitting back on his heels looking up at the angel, unbuttoning his waistcoat from top to bottom. 

Aziraphale carded his fingers through the demon's hair. "You're sure this is what you want to do first?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

Crowley hummed as he helped Aziraphale out of his jacket and waistcoat. He laid them very carefully on the bench. They were irreplaceable antiques. He looked up as he kneeled between his angel's legs. Aziraphale had a look of wonder and confusion on his face. He was always surprised when Crowley was careful of his antique things. The shirt and the bowtie and the trousers seemed modern. Still, Crowley decided, it was best to go slow with every piece. Just in case. Crowley took one of the angel's hands from out of his hair and kissed gently at the angel's wrist while he unbuttoned his shirt sleeve. Then he did the same for the other wrist and sleeve. He raised himself up on his knees and bent up to kiss Aziraphale on the lips. With one hand, he stroked his cheek and with the other, he carefully unbuttoned the front buttons of the shirt from top to bottom, and then, not breaking the kiss, he untied and removed the bowtie. Then he helped him out of the sleeves of the shirt and carefully laid the shirt aside. 

Crowley had no idea how to go about seducing someone who didn't have a sexual appetite. He wasn't sure if little nibbles or licks would seem sensual or merely irritating to the angel. The kissing, at least, seemed to please him. Aziraphale's eyes were closed and he was kissing back and making little sighs in his throat. Crowley ran his hands gently under the (thankfully modern) cotton t-shirt that the angel wore, and was pleased to hear the angel sigh. He broke off the kiss and pushed the t-shirt over his angel's head, carefully keeping it right side out. The angel sighed deeply as Crowley delicately kissed his way down his ribs and back up again, up his neck, along his jawline, and back to his mouth. He pressed himself against his angel, pushing himself between the angel's thighs, feeling with his belly for the hardness that should be there but wasn't. He ran his hands up and down the angel's back gently, using only the pads of his fingers. 

Crowley rocked himself into a crouch. He brought his hands up the back of his angel until they cradled his head. He closed his eyes and kissed his angel, using his hands to draw him up until they were both on their feet. He pulled himself against his beloved, hissing against the angel's mouth as he pressed his own hardness up against the angel's body. He didn't open his eyes or pull away because he didn't trust what his angel would see in his face and because he needed a few moments to master his emotions. He'd had a foolish hope. He needed to let it go. The flash of anger he felt was not to be directed at Aziraphale; He must not let the moment be sullied by it. Even if the angel's cruel limitation could never be fixed, when Aziraphale was in his arms, he would never feel anything less than cherished and whole. 

Aziraphale was the one to break the kiss. He pulled away and tried to look Crowley in the eyes. Crowley kept them closed.

"Is it okay if I do it again?," asked the angel. "I very much want to share what you feel."

Crowley nodded, his eyes still closed. He heard the angel make a swallowing noise. His nod wasn't enough for Aziraphale. He needed to meet his eyes. He needed say the words. He opened his eyes and stared full on into the face of his beloved. "Take my body," said Crowley. "I want you to have it tonight." 

The angel nodded. 

"I don't want to share," said Crowley. "I want you to give me your body and take mine. I want you to be able to fully feel everything that I do for you."

"Are you sure?" 

"Please," said Crowley. "I've wanted this for so long."

Aziraphale made a funny expression, that Crowley couldn't interpret, then he nodded. 

"You're going to have to switch us fast," said Crowley. "I'll want to stay wrapped up with you; You might have to overpower me. I'll try not to resist you, but it's easier if it's faster."

Aziraphale kissed him again and started pulling Crowley's life breath out of his body and taking it into himself. As strong as the urges of his loins were, the pull of the angel was stronger, and Crowley's soul flowed from his belly to his mouth and down again into into the angel's body like a thick black liquid being pulled from one container to another by a siphon. Crowley felt the lust fading in importance as he fell into a warm golden ocean. He was losing the ability to feel his own limbs and he felt his old self growing limp and empty, but with each passing moment he cared less and less because he was safe in the warm ocean. 

_Please, go fast. I need you to go fast or I won't be able to let you leave me. _Crowley's voice was nonexistent, but he knew that the angel could hear him. 

"Yes my love, of course," said Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale had pulled most of Crowley's essence inside of him, and the demon was no longer supporting his own body's weight. He held the demon in his arms and kissed him, breathing his own soul into the demon's body, filling it, and forcing the last bits of Crowley out. He could feel Crowley's urgent thoughts diminishing as, with great effort, he pulled his soul away from the sucking gravity well that was the demon's soul. _Hurry. Please hurry. _As he pulled the last of his own self out of his body, he heard a quiet cry escaping from his own body's lips. The angel opened his eyes and looked at wet blue angelic eyes. He was staring at his own body from the outside.

"Its okay. I'm okay," said Crowley. He was shaking. 

"We don't have to--"

"It's what I wanted for so long. Please let me do this for you." 

Aziraphale held Crowley in his arms as the demon's shaking subsided. It felt so strange to be holding him with these skinny limbs. It felt strange to be inhaling his own cologne when he buried his face into Crowley's neck. He'd forgotten his original plan. He felt confused. He suddenly wanted to feel them all again, all of those deeply satisfying sexual sensations that he remembered from the last time he was inside Crowley's corporation. He hadn't realized how quickly the urges would come back, and now, without being able to feel Crowley's soul touching his, he felt needy and strangely alone in this body. 

Not quite alone. Crowley was kissing him. It felt strange to be kissed by his own lips. Strange and electric. He kept his eyes closed and tried to figure out what to do with his own unexpectedly long and agile tongue. He tried to remember how to kiss, but it didn't matter because Crowley was overpowering him, thrusting his tongue inside his mouth, sucking on his lips and now making little biting suckling kisses along his jawline and down his neck and stretching out the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale's knees were feeling weak and his trousers were feeling tight and uncomfortable. 

There were hands under his shirt, and his ribs felt electric as suddenly they were exposed to the air. He started to gasp. The hands were everywhere. His back, his sides, and now they were tracing a circle around his waist. Suddenly he was being kissed again and there was a body pressed against his and the pressure against his loins was so intense that he saw stars on the inside of his eyelids. He tried to grind into that pressure feeling, and then there was another kiss and the heat of skin touching his chest and he could feel himself losing control and starting to keen. 

He was forced to step backwards and something was happening at his belt buckle and there was a sensation like wind around his whole waist and then finally a loosening of the constraint that had been making him mad. His trousers were slipping away from his hips and the heat and pressure on his chest was forcing him to step backwards again and then the demon was sucking on his tongue and pulling these wordless noises from his throat, and he felt a rush of air around his thighs and then his calves. Something struck the back of his knees, and he tripped and fell backwards, but slowly, because there was a hand behind his head and another at his hip and some cloth touched his naked back and there was something underneath him. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes and he was sitting in a plush chair, and looking down at Crowley's naked body from above and he himself was crouched at his own feet pulling off his trousers and pants. He couldn't remember what was happening. And then, there in the center of this bizzare tableau was the great swollen throbbing thing that was making him mad with desire. It was Crowley's. No, right now it was his. He reached to touch it but something grabbed his hand and then his own face was looking up at him and his intense need and the strangeness of what he was seeing all threatened to overwhelm him.

"Close your eyes Angel", said his own voice, and Aziraphale obeyed. He closed his eyes and held still and felt the soft fabric under his naked ass. He grabbed the arm of the chair with his free hand and gripped the hand that was holding his other hand. He heard a scraping sound along the floor. He realized that his feet were bare and that there was something soft touching the inside of his thigh and it felt like heaven and hell at the same time. He heard desperate groaning sounds coming from his own throat. There was a sudden splendid warm torturous wetness on the underside of his cock and an electric sensation shot down the insides of both legs and then warmth and slickness and pressure surrounding everything and then he was falling apart and rising up at the same time. 


	3. Dessert

This wasn't going to last long. Crowley knew it. He had hoped to spend an hour ravishing his angel. He knew every trick to the body that Aziraphale was in, and he could have made it so good for him. It was his own body, after all. He knew exactly what worked for it. And he had more experience than any human lifetime could hold. But apparently the body's experience was overridden by the inexperience of its inhabitant. Crowley couldn't slow this train down if he tried. Every slight touch brought the angel closer to the edge. He was going to tip over it soon, and Crowley had barely been able to get him undressed. Worse still, the angel was crying out uncontrollably in ecstatic anguish, but it was Crowley's voice he was using, and Crowley couldn't stand to hear the sound of himself in such need. 

Crowley was in the angel's body, and, for both of their sakes, he needed to be an angel of mercy. He licked a stripe up the backside of his own body's cock and then plunged his mouth over and swallowed it all down to cover it with spit. He wrapped his hand around the base and gave a few strokes. Under his hand, he could already feel the final surge beginning. He let his mouth take over, moving his hand so that he could wrap it around the angel's back to support him as his hips rose up from the chair. The angel's ragged cries grew louder. He was twisting the fingers of Crowley's other hand backward so painfully that it made him gasp. That gasp helped him to open his borrowed throat to take the full length of the angel as Aziraphale thrust his hips up in stuttering spasms and spent down his throat. 

Crowley moved his arm under the angel's hips to support him through the aftershocks. The angel was still twisting his other hand back so hard that he couldn't feel the hand at all. Aziraphale's cries and little movements finally subsided, and Crowley disengaged his mouth very gently and, supporting the angel's back, settled him into the chair. The angel was very thin in Crowley's body and the demon could wrap an arm around him easily. Crowley looked up the length of his own body and watched his own face. Its eyes were closed and its mouth was rounded like an "O" and silently opening and closing. 

Crowley was still kneeling on the little footstool that he'd dragged out from under the chair a few minutes earlier. He kept his arm wrapped around Aziraphale's back. He rested his head against the angel's abdomen and listened to his pounding heartbeat. He didn't speak, but he made sure that his angel knew that he was held and safe. It took a few minutes before he was able to untwist their hands. He couldn't quite move his fingers afterwards, so he splayed his hand on the angel's rib cage and waited for feeling to return to it. 

The angel was very still and quiet, except for the silent motion of his mouth. Gradually, his heartbeat slowed. His breaths became more quiet. Then Aziraphale stirred and started running fingers through Crowley's downy hair. Finally he made a happy sighing sound, the one he normally made when he ate. 

It sounded strange to Crowley, because it was his own voice making that sigh. The smell in his nose was his own scent. The battered hand that he was slowly working the feeling back into was too plump to be his own. The lingering taste in his mouth was different from how his emissions usually tasted. (That was one of the things Crowley loved about sex. There were tastes. She had let him have those tastes at least.) 

Crowley hoped that Aziraphale hadn't been disappointed in how fast it had all been. He looked up again at the angel who was wearing his body. The angel was smiling. His eyes were closed. Crowley was glad. It was easier to look at his own face when its eyes were closed. It was strange to see his own face looking relaxed and happy. It made uncomfortable thoughts start to edge into his mind. Crowley stroked the angel's back. Or his own back, really. It was hard to reconcile his affection for the angel with how he normally felt when he looked at himself. He closed his eyes. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that this was all normal. It was, at any rate, as close as he could get to what he wished for. The angel seemed happy. That was good enough. 

An eternity later, the angel finally stirred and spoke. 

"Crowley," said the angel, "Thank you. That was a transcendent experience."

"My pleasure, Angel."

The angel was silent for a minute.

"How long does this feeling last?"

"Dunno, a while I guess. Want a cigarette?," said Crowley.

"Well, I've not smoked in years, but if you suggest it--"

"Sort of a joke. Everything is a bit heightened for a while."

"Oh. That's nice."

A small eternity passed before Aziraphale spoke again. 

"Would now be a good time for dessert?"

Crowley wasn't thinking straight. He was in the wrong body; he had a half-dozen unpleasant thoughts that he needed to suppress in order to be able to run his hands soothingly along the body that Aziraphale was inhabiting. So, when his angel asked the question, he forgot something critical. 

"Why not?", said the demon. He put his hands onto the arms of the chair and pushed himself to standing. He offered a hand to the angel and, when the angel got confused and couldn't figure out which were the right clothes, Crowley pointed to the trail of dark clothes on the floor. Aziraphale pulled Crowley's pants onto Crowley's body, and then grabbing his best friend's hand, fairly danced towards the dining room. 

It wasn't until he saw the plates of desserts on the table that Crowley remembered. He stopped short and pulled his angel back. 

"It's not going to work. We should switch back before desert."

"Why on earth would we do that?", asked the angel. His golden eyes were wide.

Crowley looked down at the rug. He traced the pattern with the toe of Aziraphale's body. The angel was waiting, and he couldn't think of what to say. Finally, he spoke.

"It won't taste right to you is all. You have a much better sense of taste than I do."

"I know that", said Aziraphale. "Please join me for dessert." 

When Crowley refused to move, Aziraphale dropped his hand and headed for the table. He sat the demon's body down. He pulled the plate of pink and gelatinous dessert towards himself and picked up a fork. 

Before the angel could move the fork towards the plate, Crowley's hand had pinned his wrist to the table. Aziraphale narrowed his golden eyes and turned towards Crowley with a look of fury. It was the only warning he was willing to give. 

The face the angel was wearing was very well suited to inspiring terror. Its serpentine eyes, its narrowness and its sharp canines could make anyone quail. Crowley was impressed by how well Aziraphale wielded it. He let go of the angel's wrist. He stepped back and then lowered himself into a crouch, leaning his hand on the table for support. His blue eyes watered in a mute plea. He shook with emotion. But he stayed silent. His eyes never strayed from the angel's borrowed face. 

Aziraphale waited a minute, for his demon to say whatever it was he was going to say. When Crowley said nothing, Azriaphale calmly slid his fork into the jiggly edge of the pink champagne panna cotta. He captured a tiny sliver of macerated peach and scooped up a petal of the edible flower garnish. He tipped the fork sideways and slid the side of the panna cotta into the peach sauce that was pooled next to it. 

"Are you going to sit down?", said the angel.

Crowley didn't move. He looked stuck and confused. Aziraphale held the loaded fork out towards Crowley. 

"The Serpent of Eden doesn't want to take the bite? How strange." 

Crowley shook his head from side to side. But he didn't speak.

"Fine," said Aziraphale at last. He looked straight at Crowley, then narrowed his yellow eyes and slid the forkful into his own mouth. 

It tasted like he was licking one of his dusty bookshelves. There was a pile of dry stuff on his tongue. It had a fine ashy texture. It was impossible to swallow, and it was touching the roof of his mouth and starting to coat his palate. With every passing instant, the taste grew more acrid. The dryness was threatening to choke him.

Crowley was suddenly at his side, looking horrified, and holding a napkin out. Aziraphale spat into it. He wiped his tongue with the cloth and made a wretching sound.

"Try the champagne," said Crowley, proffering a glass with a trembling hand. "That will wash the taste away."

The angel pushed his chair back. He picked up the entire open bottle of champagne and headed for the door that did not lead to the bedroom. Crowley scurried behind him and stood, wringing his hands in sympathy, outside the door. The angel was rinsing his mouth with the expensive dessert wine and spitting the mouthfuls into the bathroom sink. Crowley watched and listened to the wretched sounds. When he saw that the first bottle was nearly empty, he flew to the table to get a second one. He ripped open the foil and untwisted the wire and then wrenched the cork out, covering his hands and the table with bubbles. When he looked up, the angel was already walking out of the bathroom. 

Aziraphale glowered at the demon. He stalked across the room and swiped the overflowing bottle from Crowley's hands. Crowley lowered his eyes and fell in the nearest chair. He waited for the angel to speak. But Aziraphale merely poured them each a glass. Then he silently picked up his own glass and drained it. Crowley did the same. It seemed wise. The angel poured them each a second glass. Aziraphale stuck his long and slightly forked tongue out and then scraped his teeth along it.

"Blech," said the angel. 

They drank the second glasses more slowly. Crowley wasn't quite to the bottom of his when Aziraphale topped him up. 

"It was worse than I thought it would be."

"Yes." said Crowley. "When She curses you, She doesn't mess around."

"I wasn't prepared for how it physically dried out my mouth," said Aziraphale. "The way you talked, you made it seem like food simply was tasteless to you."

"Never lied, though" said Crowley. "Just misdirected." Crowley shifted a bit in his seat and smiled sheepishly and cast his blue eyes at the angel in what he hoped was a winning way. "There's a bit in Genesis a few verses earlier that warns you about the craftiness."

"Hmpf."

"What's funny is that juice is alright. Even ice lollys. They're just made of juice. Someone Upstairs must have thought that juice was just the same as wine. Kind of is, if you think about it."

Aziraphale didn't answer. They finished their champagne in silence. 

Then Aziraphale got a new fork and very expertly assembled a well balanced bite of the panna cotta, just the same as before. He held it up between himself and the demon who was wearing his body. He waited. Crowley leaned forward and stared at the forkful of jiggly pink stuff with electric blue eyes. His eyebrows were knit. His nostrils flared. He finally spoke.

"I'm afraid it will break my heart to know what it's like, and then to not be able to have it when I want it. You can't avoid it you know. It's everywhere. Humans are obsessed with it. Half the shops sell it. It's in all the advertisements."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. He had no sympathy for cowardice. He let the silence stand. He waited. He held up the loaded fork. At last Crowley took the handle from him. Crowley stared right into the golden eyes of his terrible tempter. Then he opened his mouth and put the food in. 

It was an explosion of flavor. It was like smell had gotten three dimensional. He knew the flavor of champagne, and he knew sweetness, but there were a half dozen more flavors and they were so strong and bright. The stuff in his mouth was solid and soft and moist and the flavors kept changing and his mouth was watering and he kept moving his tongue around his mouth and the stuff kept breaking into jiggly pieces. Now they were changing in shape and melting away and then one of them was starting to slip down his throat and he had to swallow or he would choke. He swallowed and the sensation of the smooth sliding seemed to go on and on. In the next bit, there was a solid something that wasn't dissolving, and he almost gagged on it but he finally managed to get it down. Then the other little bits needed to slip down his throat and they felt just as good going down as the first one. 

Crowley moaned. He could still taste the memory of it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and opened his lips and panted. When he opened his eyes, there was another forkful right there in front of him. The angel fed it to him and the explosion of flavor started again. 

After the third forkful, he made Aziraphale pause so he could speak. 

"It's like Spring would taste," he said. Tears were running down his his face. He didn't bother to wipe them. 

"This is a good first food," agreed Aziraphale. "Sweet and light with a little bit of complexity and an easy texture. The bright notes you are tasting are from the peach. There is champagne and sugar of course, you know those. The heavy satisfying feel on your tongue is the fat from the cream, and the smooth solidity comes from the gelatin."

Crowley finished the panna cotta over the course of twenty minutes. He kept needing to pause to get his emotions under control. When he was done, he felt elated and tired. Aziraphale helped him to a chair by the empty fireplace and curled up against his legs while Crowley stared off into nothingness and rested his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. 

"Wow," said Crowley, at last. 

Aziraphale unfolded himself from the floor and kissed Crowley on the forehead. 

"We aren't done yet," said the angel. "There's more. Stay right there." 

Aziraphale returned and kneeled in front of Crowley with a forkful of something white and smooth. In his other hand, he held the plate with the little choux pastry. He had opened the pastry up and scooped out some of the filling. "This," said the angel, "Is pastry cream. It is pistachio flavored."

Crowley let the angel feed him. His mouth exploded with sensation again. This was a new texture: heavier, even smoother and more intensely sweet than before. The flavor had an earthy complexity. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. It was so overwhelming that he was afraid he might lose consciousness. As the flavor ran towards the back of his mouth, he let his head fall against the high back of the arm chair. 

Crowley managed to swallow at last. When he opened his eyes, there was the angel with another forkful of the stuff.

"No. Too much," said Crowley. "I can't do it again."

"Okay, darling. We'll be done for a while then." Aziraphale reached up and stroked his cheek.


	4. Honesty

Aziraphale reluctantly concluded that the chocolate would be too overwhelming of a flavor for Crowley's first night eating. He took Crowley back into the bedroom and helped him lay down on the bed. They lay on their backs and held hands and stared at the fabric at the top of the canopy. 

"It feels different in my belly. It's not like alcohol. I can feel it sitting in there. It feels satisfying, like being filled up."

"I'm so glad you like it."

"I was afraid to do it."

"I noticed," said Aziraphale. "Was what I did too awful?"

"Naw, probably nothing else would have worked." Crowley paused to consider. "It was kind of hard to figure out how to swallow something solid. I didn't think of that. I'm going to have to practice."

"I agree," said Aziraphale. "I think if we give you small amounts of soft things, that should work to start. I don't think you're ready for chewing yet."

"Angel?"

"Yes Dear One?"

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever for?"

"I screwed up your romantic plan. I didn't realize the food was for me."

"We got there in the end; I knew we would."

"I'm not so good at letting you do nice things for me."

"I know," said Aziraphale. He rolled over to face the demon. "Kiss me again. I want to share for a while. I think it will be good for us both."

Crowley turned onto his side and kissed his angel. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth and felt something warm and powerful slipping inside of him. He surrendered instantly, and the warmth began to envelop him. 

Aziraphale flowed into his own body and took control of it again. He rolled on his back on the bed and he pulled Crowley's empty body into his arms and held Crowley's soul within his own. He pressed his own body's hand to the chest of Crowley's to check that the heart was still beating. He brought his lips to the lips of Crowley's body and breathed a little of his own soul back in, just to be sure. 

_Don't leave me yet. Please Angel. _

"I'm just sending a bit of me on over to keep your body safe my love. Most of me is here with you. I'll stay as long as you need me. I've got you."

Aziraphale could dimly feel the sensations of Crowley's body. He felt how it was limp and nearly empty. He could feel himself holding Crowley's body and he could feel himself being held. If he forced Crowley's body to open its eyes, he could see light and a few blurry colors, but he couldn't bring anything into focus, and the moment he stopped concentrating, the eyes closed. 

Crowley was entirely inside Aziraphale. He wasn't competing with Aziraphale for control of his body. He was just, for want of a better word, cuddling. He was resting inside the angel curled about in a way to maximize the surface area where they contacted each other. 

_You are so beautiful. I've never felt anything so beautiful as you. _

"I love you too. It is so wonderful to be with you this way," replied Aziraphale.

_It was worth it, all of it. I wish I had known last week that I would have this in the end. _

Crowley was still reeling from eating and now he was intoxicated from touching Aziraphale's soul. He was, Aziraphale reflected, a cheerful drunk, if a bit tedious. Aziraphale spent a long few minutes just letting the demon babble and making soothing replies. He cuddled the demon's soul inside of his own, and, because it felt good to him, he held the demon's nearly empty body in his arms. Finally the demon seemed to settle. His thoughts grew quieter and Aziraphale wondered if he was falling asleep. Then he started to get more cogent and self-aware again. Aware and yet open and trusting. The demon was getting contemplative. This was a good moment to talk.

"Can we talk about sex?", asked Aziraphale. 

_I know it didn't last long, but I can make it better for you. We'll work up to it._

"Crowley, I know that you can feel what I'm feeling right now. Tell me what I'm feeling."

_You're grateful....... You aren't disappointed at all...... You..... You're a little concerned about something..... It's me.... You're worried about me _

"Because I can hear your thoughts. You are still trying to figure out a way to make my body work the way you hoped it would."

_It would be easier. There is so much more that we could do together if we had two bodies to work with. _

"Yes, but it might take a Heavenly intervention, and I think that, on balance, it is better that we avoid attracting attention from that direction. At least for a while. And I'm content. Really."

Aziraphale felt, rather than heard, the demon stewing. 

_Is it okay if I try? Can I touch you?_

"Be my guest."

Crowley concentrated and moved his awareness around Aziraphale's body, pushing himself out to all the peripheries while the angel withdrew into a shining ball of concentrated energy in the center. Crowley flexed the fingers of the angel's body experimentally. He felt the angel's soul inside of his own. As he gained awareness of his surroundings, he smelled the scent of his own hair and felt a weight on his chest. He opened his eyes and saw his own body lying across him. His body had its eyes closed and a faint smile on its face. It was limp and breathing very quietly, as if it were deeply asleep and enjoying a pleasant dream. Which was true. Crowley was enjoying a pleasant dream. 

Maybe he could make that dream more pleasant. Crowley eased his own sleeping body aside. He ran his strong plump hands over the sides of the body that he was inhabiting and felt the sensation. It was nice. He ran his hands along the slightly rounded belly, brushing them over the bits of golden white fuzz below the navel. It didn't tickle at all. He let his hand stray lower, and he could feel the angel's sex under his hand. He could also feel the weight of his hand resting on his borrowed sex organ. It was soft, of course. It felt comfortable and warm under his hand, but it didn't move or grow warmer. 

He unlatched the trousers and unzipped them, then he stuck one hand in and stroked. It felt pleasant. Pleasant in the way of touching any piece of new skin. Pleasant and comforting. Crowley spat into his other hand. He pulled the angel's penis out of his pants. He wrapped his wet hand around it and gave a gentle tug. He felt wetness and the pulling and it felt slightly strange and not entirely unpleasant, but there was no awakening desire, no spreading warmth, no urgency or tension. Crowley experimented for few more minutes. He reached in and tugged gently on the angel's balls. He explored further back with his fingers. It was all comfortable and sensual, but not arousing at all. When he was thoroughly out of ideas, he tucked the angel's sex organs away, wiped his hand on the angel's pants, and zipped and clasped the angel's trousers. 

Crowley stared at the ceiling for a while. It was a little stupid to be trying to collect his thoughts because the angel could hear his half-formed thoughts, and probably even understand them before Crowley could. After a while, he realized that one of the feelings that he was starting to have was embarrassment. He wanted to hide. He wanted to apologize. He pulled his awareness away from the limbs of the body he was in, and back towards the patient golden warmth at the center of his borrowed body. He let the angel's soul surround him. He surrendered control of limbs and sensory organs and simply existed within the universe of Aziraphale. He felt forgiven and safe and held. He no longer needed to formulate his thoughts. He was completely understood. 

"It's fine," Aziraphale said. "You always have to try for yourself. It's your nature."

_I'm sad, _replied Crowley. _I shouldn't be sad because I'm with you and I've always wanted to be with you and being with you is so beautiful and I should be satisfied with that. _

"And we have limits that you didn't anticipate."

_I should have been able to keep my feelings under control. I'm sorry. _

"Take your time. Be sad for as long as you need to be."

_Why aren't you angry at me? _

"Because I love you. Because I have faith that we will find a way. Because we've faced much much worse than this."

_Is it okay if I pray? To Her? Asking Her should be safe, right? _

"Of course. Go right ahead."

_Not right now. I'm still too angry at Her. I need to do it right. And I don't want you there._

"That's fine, my darling."

They lapsed into silence. Aziraphale didn't normally sleep, but as Crowley drifted towards sleep, he pulled them both along into a strange half-dream space where the Devil rose from the earth and disappeared again and again and where his hands were bound while cruel angels shoved him along a bright corridor. 

Crowley drifted through memories of the last few days. Though he was reliving terrifying events, he didn't feel afraid. He could feel his angel keeping him safe. He could tell that these were memories and that they were looking them over together. As each memory passed, the angel seemed to tuck it away carefully for him so that, while he could still see each memory, all the terrible pointy parts wouldn't stick out and hurt him again. When the last memory was put away, they drifted together into darkness.


	5. First Day of the Rest of Our Lives

When Aziraphale woke, he could hear birdsong. He opened his eyes. He ran his hands through his fluffy white hair. The room was fairly dark, because the curtains were closed. The demon inside him was sluggish and didn't seem to stir as he stretched and walked over to open the curtains and look out at the grey of the twilight hour. They had a French window that led to a small balcony with a wrought iron rail. The angel went outside and stood with his hands on the rail, looking out towards a massive oak tree that was one tenth of his own age. He stood barefoot on the stone balcony and listened to the birdsong and felt the cool morning air play over his chest and belly. He tried to shake the sleepiness out of himself, but the sleepiness was demonically stubborn. 

After a while, Aziraphale slipped back into the bed and under the covers, and then, very carefully, he slid his soul out from around Crowley's and slipped into the demon's body. He left Crowley, asleep, his blond curls spread out on the pillow. He walked over to the en suite bathroom and found a dressing gown to wrap around himself. This body had no padding and he was chilly in it. He went back out on the balcony and watched through snake eyes as the world slowly brightened. Then he crept into the dining room and found the breakfast menu. 

Aziraphale quietly closed the bedroom door and picked up the phone. He explained to the concierge that his partner could only eat soft foods, and soon he was talking to a very sympathetic chef. The kitchen, it transpired, was previewing their fall menu, and they had a small quantity of vegetable bisque that could be sent up, together with lightly poached eggs and a hollandaise sauce. They would also send some sliced avocado, stewed fruit, and a selection of juices and teas. There were some freshly baked crackers, which were made of white flour and would dissolve in the mouth. Breakfast could be sent within the half hour, but the kitchen would be equally pleased to send it at 8:30. If his partner would require lunch, he should call before ten to allow the chef time to find adequate menu substitutions. 

The angel crept back to the bedroom and crawled under the covers. He curled up next to his own sleeping body. He tried to imagine what the future would hold for both of them. He couldn't see past the next few hours, but those hours would be filled with the joy of introducing his best friend to some excellent foods. After that, he didn't know. But he was an angel. He was good at having faith. He waited for Crowley to wake up as patiently as he could. 

Forty-five minutes later, Crowley felt a weight land on top of him. He opened his eyes. There was bright light everywhere, and when his eyes finally adjusted, at first he thought he was still dreaming. He was looking up at himself. Himself wearing a fond smile. 

"Wazz-iz-grum um?", said Crowley. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what drugs he had used last night. 

"I wanted to give you plenty of time to get washed up before breakfast!" That was his own voice talking to him. It was so earnest. And cheerful. "You're going to love it! All savory things. You won't have had anything like it before. And then we can go for a walk in the city. I have some ideas about how we can---"

"Stopstopstopstop," cried Crowley, shaking his head back and forth.

"Oh. Sorry. Take your time." The weight on top of him shifted so that it was above his hips. 

Crowley kept his eyes closed and waited for his mind to assemble itself. Bits of memory from last night started to stitch themselves together, and he was starting to figure out where he was and what was going on. He opened his eyes and took in the scene around him. 

"Oh bless it all," groaned Crowley, as he regarded the thin demonic body perched astride him. "I've married a morning person."

Aziraphale took this to mean that Crowley wanted more interaction, so he laid back down on top of him, covered his face with kisses and gave a friendly full body wriggle of happiness. 

"Oh my," said the angel, with sudden alarm, "it's happening again."

"What did you expect would happen if you rubbed yourself against me?" 

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "Hmmm. That does make sense."

"Want me to take care of it for you, Angel?"

"Would you?", said Aziraphale. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pleasures of the morning lasted until nearly eleven o'clock. Then Aziraphale switched them back to their own bodies and they went for a walk. They were sitting on a bench in the middle of a quiet park when Aziraphale leaned to whisper in Crowley's ear. "I think I've figured out some ideas for what we can do about sex."

"I told you not to worry about it."

"I'll brook no argument Crowley. I mean to do right by you," said Aziraphale. "Furthermore, I enjoy sex and I intend to make the most of it. Now, in cases like ours, one can go to certain doctors and obtain marital aids. I could make a few discreet inquiries."

A little twitch of a smile lifted the corner of the demon's lip. 

"Crowley, I'm quite serious.... Are you alright?"

"Sorry Angel," said Crowley. "Yes, that is a good idea, but maybe it's better if I take the lead on that... particular task."

"I suppose you do have more knowledge in this arena," admitted Aziraphale. He straightened his shoulders and plowed onward. "I've also been thinking about Madame Tracy."

Crowley cocked his head. He wasn't sure that he wanted to know where the angel was going to take this thread.

"She's a professional," said Aziraphale, "and she doesn't mind being possessed."

"NO. Not my type. NO."

"I didn't mean her, in specific, I meant someone like her. We could pay quite well. I'm sure there is some young man in London with whom we could reach an agreeable arrangement."

"I'll think about it," said Crowley.

"What is your type? I'd never thought of that before. How would I go about finding out the sort of person you would find sexually attractive? What should I look for? That fellow over by the fountain for example. Do you find him attractive?"

"Maybe we should get you a pair of sunglasses," said Crowley.

"What on earth for?"

"So you can stare at men more discretely."

"Oh. Is THAT why humans wear sunglasses?"

"One of the reasons, yes." said Crowley.

Crowley turned to face Aziraphale and took the angel's hands into his own. Aziraphale looked right back at him, eyes blazing with determination. It almost hurt to be loved so fiercely. Crowley had no doubts that, as surely as he had found Adam Young, his angel was going to figure out how to become the best lover the world had ever seen. There were no barriers Aziraphale wouldn't overcome. He might even learn to use the internet. 

"Aziraphale," said Crowley. "You are the most astonishing person I have ever known." He paused. He couldn't figure out how exactly how to say this next part, but Aziraphale waited patiently until he could gather his thoughts. They still came out all jumbled. 

"Angel, I think it's great that you are interested in trying lots of creative things, and I'll probably get there too in a while, but... I don't know quite how to explain this all to you. Um. Food. With food, some stranger in the kitchen makes it, and you don't care who they are as long as it's high quality, right? But with sex, it's not like that. At least for me. I need to go a little slow. Right now, I want to keep things simple and just figure out how to be with you."

"But I don't want you ever to feel that you are deprived."

"Won't happen Angel. You are my everything. My own personal heaven." 

"Really?"

"Really."

"Crowley?"

"Yes, Angel?"

"You are my personal heaven too."


	6. Tuesday Morning Brunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have a fabulously sweet and food-centric morning at the shop.

On the third day after the apocalypse, Crowley woke up naked and surrounded by angel.

The angel was holding him and the angel was also inside of him. Inside of his own chest, next to his heart, a small piece of the angel's soul was thrumming. It felt like birdsong and the way that sunshine dances on water. It felt like the hopeful smell on the morning of the first day when spring turns into summer. Through it, little dancing flickers of joyful angelic thoughts began to illuminate the splendid drowsy darkness of Crowley's mind.

As he awoke, Crowley could feel strong warm arms around him and the soft tickly scratchiness of the angel's chest hairs under his cheek. The warmth on his other cheek and on his shoulders was from a beam of sunshine. Then he noticed the swirl of scents that the sunshine evaporated from Aziraphale's chest: the angel's cologne, with it's clean spiciness and the barest hint of orange blossoms, the almost human scent of his skin, and then, under it all, the musky smells left over from the night before.

The little flickers of Azriaphale's thoughts, which had started off as mere sparks of happiness and recognition started to change as Crowley slowly surfaced from sleep. They started to push into his sluggish soul with little explosions of joyous expectation that let him know that under no circumstances would he be doing any more sleeping on the second day of their new life together.

The hand that had been shading his eyes from the sunbeam he was basking in suddenly moved and his eyes were blasted by the red light that drilled through the skin of his eyelids. Crowley squinted and twisted his head to bury his face in the angel's chest. He nuzzled it and kissed and tasted the traces of the fluids that own body had left here. He felt the tickling in his nostrils as his exhalations rebounded off of the angel's skin. At the back of his neck, he felt a glorious scratching and tugging that almost made him want to stretch his muscles. Inside him, the bright flickers of Aziraphale's thoughts started to coalesce and Crowley came to understand that Aziraphale expected him to get out of bed and go downstairs to answer the door.

"I'm retired, Angel. I'm never getting out of bed again," Crowley said. He heard his own voice and it sounded warm and content, so whatever venom he had tried to put into his words had ended up sounding like gentle teasing.

"Well," replied the angel, "Then I suppose you'll miss the lovely brunch I've ordered for you."

Crowley nestled himself deeper into his soft nest of naked body and mattress and pillows. Then the sweet circular scratching of his hair suddenly ceased. The soft body he was lounging on slipped out from underneath him and he was suddenly drowning in a pillow. The bright warm fragment of Aziraphale that was in Crowley's body prodded him with reminders that the exquisite pleasure of eating real food could be his yet again if he would just go downstairs and open the door.

He raised his head and opened his eyes. Quite unexpectedly, he found himself to be happy. Based on the slant of the sunshine and the sounds coming up from the street through the window, it was clearly before noon, at least by a half hour. On principle, Crowley wanted to be grumpy and sleepy and resentful. But he simply couldn't manage it.

"Why does it have to be me?", he asked. The worst he could manage was to sound curious.

"Well," replied the angel, "When I called yesterday, I needed to tell them something to explain why all the foods had to be liquids or mushes, so I told them that I was going to be having oral surgery. They were ever so sympathetic. But, of course, on the day after surgery, I would have swelling in my face and so it has to be you that answers the door."

Crowley rolled out of bed, shuffled around the narrow bedroom to find his clothes, and started pulling them on.

"You ordered my breakfast yesterday?"

"Your brunch, actually. I expected you would sleep late." Aziraphale pulled the curtain back and peered at the street below. "It seems that I didn't wake you a moment too soon."

The door buzzer rang. Aziraphale took Crowley's sunglasses off of a small table and handed them to him. Crowley padded out of the tiny room and down the narrow stairs. He was barefoot and his shirt was half buttoned and untucked.

Dust motes danced in the sunbeams coming through the windows of the shop. The threadbare carpets undulated over the familiar unevenness of the ancient floorboards. As he dodged around piles of books in his bare feet, Crowley could feel subtle curves that he'd never noticed before. When he reached the front of the shop, he found that the patches of sunlight had warmed the soft wood pleasantly, and it was actually a pleasure to be standing in the door of the shop, in the sunshine, on a beautiful late summer morning.

The delivery person was a young woman. Because a piece of Aziraphale was inside of him, Crowley found himself beaming at her. Crowley recognized some of the smells from inside the large paper bag she held out to him. He could detect the warm, rich, spicy-earthy smells of cumin and garlic, mixing with the smells of some oil roasted vegetable. For thousands of years, he had walked the ancient world, smelling these very scents. They were the smells that signified shelter and good company, the human pleasures that he could partake of. He had sat in the corners of warm rooms that smelled like this paper bag, drinking water or beer or wine, and drifting along on the feeling of fellowship that the humans generated while they broke bread together.

"Hi" said the young woman, as she handed off the bag. She looked him up and down, taking in his rumpled clothes and bedhead. She smirked and then expertly switched a cardboard tray full of drinks and small cardboard bowls from one hand to the other so that she could offer her hand. "I'm Tiffany."

Crowley was a little slow to realize what was happening, but when he hesitated, the angel inside him prodded him and he found himself warmly clasping the woman's hand.

"Um, Crowley. Anthony Crowley."

It wasn't the earliness of the hour that made him slow. It was the realization of what was about to happen. Crowley was reeling with the thought that he was soon going to taste this food. He would finally know the taste that went with the scent.

"Nice to meet you, Anthony," she said. "I'm so glad that Mr. Fell has someone to look after him. How is he doing this morning?"

"Errr, you know, just um, like you'd expect," said Crowley. "He's still in bed."

"Ah," said the young woman, flashing a knowing smile. "Breakfast in bed. Very sweet." She carefully handed over the loaded tray. "Well, here, take this to him as well. Drinks and cold things. There should be plenty of food for both of you. Tell him that Tiffany says 'Hi.' And when he feels better, tell him to bring you to La Shuk. Everyone would love to meet you."

Crowley stood in the doorway a little stupidly with both hands full of food that he actually was going to eat. He watched the woman walk away. He was afraid he might drop something, so he carefully slid the drinks onto the top of a bookshelf. Then he carried the fragrant, warm bag back to the sitting area at the back of the shop. Aziraphale was already there, wearing a dressing gown. He had set two spindly round tables in front of the sofa, and he took the bag, set it on top of the tables and started to open it. Crowley stood and watched.

"Do remember to shut the door when you fetch the drinks," said Aziraphale.

Crowley stood still, glancing towards the front of the shop, where the drinks and the mysterious containers were, and then looking longingly at the steaming bag, from which Aziraphale was removing little cardboard boxes. He found that he couldn't resolve to leave the room that had the bag of food. The bit of Aziraphale that was inside him and the Aziraphale that was in front of him both sighed. "I'll come with you to get the drinks," said the angel. He took Crowley by the elbow and steered him towards the front of the shop.

Aziraphale carried the drinks back and set them on one of the trays. Crowley sat down on the sofa. He stared at the little white boxes. They had complicated folds and wires on their tops. These kinds of boxes had been in his world for decades, but he now realized that he wasn't quite sure how they actually opened. He was inexplicably terrified that he might accidentally upset the tables and send the little boxes to the floor where they would burst open. He tucked his feet very carefully. He put his hands on his knees so that he couldn't possibly jostle anything. His nostrils flared. His mouth watered, even though he knew that the mouth of the body he was in could never taste the food. The little bit of Aziraphale inside him started to make little gentle sounds to soothe him. It stilled his shaking legs and helped him close his eyes while he waited. Aziraphale himself took his glasses off and then laid a hand on his thigh.

"Stay right here. I've just got to grab some proper cutlery. One should never eat off of plastic. It ruins the flavor."


	7. Carrot Soup

"Right," said Aziraphale. "How do you prefer to do this? Shall I finish unpacking first, or shall we do the switch first?" He set down the utensils and tilted his head and listened to the hesitant confusion inside of Crowley. Aziraphale sat down on the couch next to Crowley and put his hands on the demon's knees, pressing downward firmly. Inside of Crowley, the thrumming golden presence of the angel kept him still and forced him to take slow breaths. Finally Aziraphale made the decision.

"I'm going to pull you into my body now," said the angel. "Then we'll share my body for a few minutes before I leave. But not for too long. I want you to enjoy the food at the proper temperature."

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale lifted one hand and put it behind the demon's head, and pulled him into a kiss. Crowley closed his eyes and parted his lips and felt the slightest brush on them, and then he felt the pull. It was stronger and faster than it had been the other times. He was being pulled away from his body and falling through emptiness. Before Crowley could feel fear, his soul tasted the warm safe golden soul of his angel. He landed and sunk into it, like falling into a heated feather bed. This was so much more than the little spark of angel soul that he'd carried in his body for the last half hour. This was all encompassing bliss. This was a complete universe of love.

Crowley's soul writhed in the quiet ecstasy of being loved, and Aziraphale encompassed him and waited for him to be ready for the next step. As was their usual way, Aziraphale spoke out loud and listened in his mind for the demon's answers. It was several minutes before Crowley could be articulate.

"Can you be ready now, my dear?"

_What if you stayed, and we eat together in the same body?_

"Not yet darling. We will soon, I promise."

_Please._

"I know you trust me. I am going to give you a wonderful experience. Are you ready?"

_What about if you leave a little bit of yourself? Just like before?_

"A little piece," agreed the angel, "Otherwise I'll see double and I might start knocking things over."

_Agreed. I'm ready. Do it._

Aziraphale felt Crowley brace himself for the worst part of the switch. Leaving Crowley was difficult for both of them because the demon's soul cried out at every bit of loss as they separated. Pulling his soul out of the demon's was a lot like pulling a boot out of the mud when you'd stepped in it up to your ankle. It had to be done with firm resolution.

Aziraphale pulled away from his own body and pushed himself into Crowley's body, homing in on the tiny spark of his own soul that he sent in earlier to wake the demon. He spread out in the demon's body, pushing his awareness out to limbs and face. As he had promised, Aziraphale left a tiny bit of himself behind in his own body to keep his poor demon from feeling alone, and he kept some of his attention there, radiating soothing feelings into the twisted and dark coils of Crowley's soul.

When Aziraphale opened his eyes, he was gratified to see that Crowley was barely even trembling. The demon was looking at him with wide blue eyes, and the manicured hands of his borrowed body shaking only slightly where they still rested on the slender legs of Crowley's body. Aziraphale rested his hands on top of Crowley's to help settle him.

"Thank you Angel."

Aziraphale unfolded his long limbs and reached down to pick up the box of drinks and cold dips. Through his connection to Crowley, he could feel the demon's heart jump with every move he made. He arranged the food containers on top of the table, and he put the drinks down on the floor. Crowley was leaning forward, his mouth open and a little bit of drool starting to form at the corners of his mouth. Aziraphale handed him a paper napkin in hopes that he would pat at his lips, but he merely took it and started twisting it in his lap.

The angel took the lid off of the first container and then the second. He stacked the lids neatly, face up, on the flattened bag on the floor and then opened the next container and positioned it carefully on one of the little tables.

"What's that?", asked Crowley "I didn't see what was in it."

"Almost there darling. I need to open everything. Nearly there now."

A very long minute later, Aziraphale surveyed the spread with satisfaction. "This is a baba ganoush and a warm hummus dip with mashed garlic, and they've completely pureed the garlic, how thoughtful. This is the Moroccan style carrot soup, with the house yogurt on the side. Hmmmmm....I didn't order the taro or the pita crisps. This is a nice banana date smoothie in case anything is too spicy for you. Here's the lime soda. And..."

"If you don't give me something to eat right now, I am going to lose my mind," said Crowley.

"Carrot soup, coming up!" Aziraphale carefully scooped up a precise amount of yogurt, placed it artistically in the exact middle of the cardboard soup bowl, then picked up a fresh soup spoon, slid it along the edge of the container and filled it with the soup. Then, as he lifted the spoon, he scooped up a tiny bit of the yogurt with the tip of the spoon. He held the spoon in front of his own lips and blew on it, while the demon borrowing his body whined in anticipation. When Aziraphale was satisfied with the temperature, he brought the spoon to Crowley's mouth and carefully put the spoonful in, tipping it up as he pulled it out so that Crowley's upper lip would sweep the spoon clean.

Crowley's eyes rolled backward. His jaw went slightly slack behind his closed lips. He moaned and moved his tongue around his mouth as he tilted his head from one side to another and then finally backward as the soup slipped down his throat.

"The bright notes here are the carrots and the lemon juice," said Aziraphale, as he prepared the next spoonful. "Sweetness comes primarily from the sauteed onions and the carrots of course but there is also a touch of honey. Whereas the dark spicy flavors--"

"Just. More."

Aziraphale served the second spoonful and watched in silence as Crowley savored. He could use the distant piece of his soul to feel Crowley's surprise and joy as each spoonful unfolded its flavors. If he concentrated he could almost taste it, and his memory supplied the sensations that must match the little ripples of muscle movement around Crowley's eyes and jaw. There was the hot temperature of the soup contrasted with the cool of the yogurt, and the slightly grainy texture of the ground carrots contrasted with the smoothness of the yogurt. There were the deep earthy spiciness of the cumin and allspice dancing on top of the acidic sweetness of the carrots and the mellow caramelly sweetness of the onions. The yogurt would add a rich satisfying fat that would keep the acidic notes of carrots and cumin from scorching the throat when swallowing.

Crowley's eyes were overflowing with grateful tears as he opened his mouth to receive the third spoonful. The demon reached blindly to take Aziraphale's free hand as he rolled the soup around his mouth. He squeezed two of Aziraphale's fingers as he swallowed and then made a small breathy noise.

"Fuck. How is it so good?"

"More?", said Aziraphale, holding out the next spoonful.

"Yes."

Crowley closed his watery blue eyes and opened his mouth again.

Aziraphale smiled at the flickers of surprise and pleasure that flitted across his own face as Crowley experienced eating in his body. Aziraphale knew that each different way of moving the angelic tongue would unlock a slightly different cascade of flavors. He had his own favorite way of rolling this particular soup around in his mouth to catch all the nuances, and he was avidly watching the little muscle movements of his own body's jaw and cheeks as Crowley experimented. The angel was beginning to understand why Crowley had enjoyed taking him out to dinner just to watch him eat.

After ten bites of soup, Aziraphale judged that it was time for Crowley to have a drink. He picked up the lime soda, removed the plastic lid, tossed it to the floor with prejudice, and poured the drink into a clean glass (leaving an inch between the top of the beverage and the lip) before handing it to Crowley. Crowley drank a few sips and handed it back. He leaned back and rested his head on the back of the couch.

"This drink I've had before," said Crowley. "It tastes different when it's after food, though. It's stronger." Crowley took Aziraphale's hand again and squeezed it.

"Can I wipe your face?"

Crowley nodded and turned his face toward his angel. Aziraphale used a cloth to mop the tears from the cheeks of his own body's face. He delicately wiped the bits of orange soup that had leaked out of the corners of his own pink lips. Then he leaned up against his own body and placed his free hand onto his own broad chest. It was very comfortable. But the cuddle only lasted about ten seconds.

"I'm ready for the next one," said Crowley.

They worked their way through a few bites of everything and then went back to the soup. This time, Crowley was able to at least half-listen to Aziraphale's descriptions of the ingredients and the preparation methods. His emotions had settled down and he was able to keep his eyes open more of the time. He was starting to be able to guess at which scents went with which flavors and which words. He still needed to take a break every three or four bites to swear softly in appreciation.

Aziraphale's sense of taste was far superior to any human's, both because he was more sensitive and because his was, perforce, the most educated palate on the planet. With this particular carrot soup, which he had enjoyed dozens of times, Aziraphale could tell from the first bite if the wrong butter had been used in sauteing the onions, or if the carrots were not the special sweet North African Muscade carrots preferred by the chef. In time, the angel hoped to educate Crowley to appreciate food as he did. That was one of the reasons that it was so important to him that his beloved demon would get nothing but the best in his first week of eating. Aziraphale had made sure to confirm that the Muscade carrots were in stock before he'd placed his order.

As Crowley got more confident, he took the spoon from Aziraphale and started to feed himself. Shortly thereafter he began to experiment. First, he simply tried the soup without the yogurt. Then he tried the yogurt without the soup, plunging his eating spoon directly into the yogurt container and earning a scandalized groan from Aziraphale. A look of inspiration flitted across the demon's face and he reached past the angel to grab an empty lid from the floor and put it up on the table. Then he scooped a spoonful of the hummus into the lid, mixed a spoonful of yogurt into it and tried them together. Next, he took a scoop of hummus and mixed it into the dregs of his soup. He liked the way this thinned out the hummus and made it easier to swallow, and he told Aziraphale so with evident pride. There were lemon wedges, and he squirted one onto a fresh lid and then took a scoop of the baba ganoush and mixed it in with the lemon.

"Crowley, that is disgusting!"

"How do I know till I try it?"

The more theatrically Aziraphale flinched and moaned at his experiments, the more gleeful Crowley became. Some of the combinations were pretty good, some were merely interesting. The only bad one was roasted garlic with banana smoothie. And once he drank enough smoothie, the bad taste went away. Eventually, Crowley remembered the pita crisps. He made Aziraphale empty the bag of them onto one of the tables. Then, still wary of chewing, he picked one up and slurped his tongue up the front of it. "This tastes like tears!" he said. "Or skin on a hot night! Well less musky, purer flavor, really good."

"It's just salt!", said Aziraphale. He started to laugh, despite himself. Crowley tossed the first soggy licked crisp into his empty soup bowl and grabbed another one. He slowly worked his way through the crisps and rhapsodized.

"Salt is amazing! Remember all the wars they used to fight over this stuff? I'd fight a war to get this. Give us another one." Aziraphale tossed him a crisp, but between having no athletic ability and being in the wrong body, he managed to toss it onto the floor, where it broke.

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley before he could make a move towards it. "You will NOT eat off the floor like an animal! Especially with my body!"

Crowley squirmed and fought back, but not hard enough to break Azriaphale's grip. "You broke my crisp; You owe me some salt."

Aziraphale did his best to roll his snake-like eyes and then handed over a tiny paper packet of salt. Crowley took it and then lit up with mischievous glee.

"Hold out your wrist, Angel."

Crowley took Aziraphale's hand and very carefully poured the salt onto the inside of the angel's wrist. Then he lowered his lips and he slowly sucked up the salt. He smiled, not breaking eye contact, picked up his lime soda and slowly drank a sip. Then he kissed Aziraphale on the lips.

"That was as good as I hoped it would be," said Crowley. "Don't even need the Tequila. How many of those salt packets do we have?"

It transpired that Aziraphale had about a dozen packets of salt stuffed in the bottom of a drawer, and Crowley found a tender patch of skin to eat each and every one of them off of.


	8. Boots Before Corset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley hatches a plan to visit a church and talk to God without his feet hurting.

The instant Crowley took his first step out the door of the bookshop and into the crisp late October night, he knew it had been a brilliant idea. The humans on the sidewalk all drew back from him, but without any fear. Someone whistled and another person just said "Damn!" 

He turned his golden eyes toward them and drew back his lips so that they could get a good look at his fangs. He stretched his wings out over them, first the right, then the left. He rolled his head and his shoulders in a slow and menacing shimmy and looked down upon them all and hissed. Then he pulled the door shut behind him. He stalked past them, his hips rolling with inhuman flexibility as he took every step. They were stunned into silence for a moment. Then one of them yelled after him.

"Yaaassss Queen!" 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first few weeks of Crowley's new life with Aziraphale had turned out to be absolutely perfect. 

Every morning, a different and delicious brunch would be delivered and the angel would give his body over to Crowley so that he could enjoy the food. Then the demon would make Aziraphale into his dessert. Afterwards, they would take turns wearing Crowley's body until every possible orgasm had been wrung from it. 

In the late afternoon, Aziraphale would go out to buy dinner and order brunch for the next day. In the evening, they'd share dinner, and Aziraphale's body, in the back room of the bookshop, trading off turns so they could both enjoy the meal. Aziraphale found it exhausting to keep moving them both from body to body, so, after dinner, they defaulted to being in their own corporations. 

Aziraphale still had no sex drive when in his own body, but he adored being touched, and, every night, he melted under Crowley's hands. Crowley could worship any part of Aziraphale, from the delicate skin covering his ankle bones to the curls at his temples. He would touch and massage the angel for hours until Aziraphale was so limp and pliable that he was nearly asleep. Then Crowley would seek his own pleasure. Often Crowley simply rolled Aziraphale onto his side and slipped his cock between his thighs. The angel would reach one hand back to touch Crowley's thigh or arse, and he would murmur sweet encouragements as Crowley rocked against him. He would praise the demon as he came and then sigh again in happy sympathy as Crowley's final shudders finally gave way to whole body limpness. Then Crowley would fall asleep, wrapped around his beloved. 

Every day had been like that for their first two weeks of living together, and the weeks that followed had been full of slow days where they barely put on clothes at all, interspersed with romantic dates all over London. A saner demon would have been content. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tonight was the first time he'd worn these particular boots, but Crowley's hips knew just what to do, and he gave the humans a fine show as he sashayed away from the shop. The boots were black leather, with laces from his ankles up to mid thigh. They were wound round with entirely decorative belts and buckles. They had ten inch stiletto heels and seven inches of platform under the toes. Crowley could have gotten seven inches of protection with wedges, but these boots had style. And wings as gorgeous as his deserved to be paired with these boots. If Anthony J. Crowley was going to meet his maker, he would do it with style. He was not one for half measures. Today was a week and a half before Halloween and he could pass for a drag queen on her way to a party. That was the plan. And it was working. 

It was 11:37 pm on October the 20th, and Crowley had six blocks to cover before midnight. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once Crowley had learned how to chew and swallow, Aziraphale had paraded him though almost every restaurant in Soho. The humans just saw the same scene as they had in the weeks before the apocalypse: a lanky man in sunglasses lounging around and watching their beloved Mr. Fell exclaim over every bite of food. And Crowley did enjoy every bite. He had refrained, as much as was possible for him, from any indecorous behaviors, though he occasionally insisted on choosing menu items that Aziraphale had warned him were "odd" or "not up to snuff." Crowley wanted the full experience--- and even bad foods had interesting tastes. Aziraphale flat out refused to accompany him to McDonald's, so he took himself. 

Aziraphale was excited to teach Crowley about food, but he was also enjoying exploring sex very much. He was unselfconsciously grateful for every bit of sensation that he could enjoy in Crowley's body. When in his own body, the angel had no sex drive whatsoever, but he went about pleasing his demon with attentiveness, precision, and craftsmanly pride in his improving skills. He sometimes borrowed a piece of the demon's soul while he made love to him, so that he could feel the echos of the sensations he was creating. For Crowley, the experience of touching Aziraphale's soul during orgasm was an ecstasy unmatched by anything he had ever experienced. 

Crowley should have been satisfied. Any reasonable being would have been. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey angel, where are you heading?" 

"Fly over here, sexy!"

Crowley got plenty of attention as he moved through the streets of Soho. Men whistled and cat called. Some friendlier folks tried to stop him on the street to chat him up or at least get a selfie. He sauntered past them all without pausing. It wasn't their attention he was trying to get. And he had four blocks to cover before midnight. 

What Crowley was doing tonight wasn't really looking for trouble. It was true that he hadn't told Aziraphale where he was going or why. But Crowley had considered the level of danger carefully and he was more afraid of his plan failing than he was of getting seriously injured. He had his thin phone silenced and tucked into the top of his boot. If he chanced to get injured, he could call the angel and explain everything. If he happened to fail and didn't get hurt then it would be better if the angel never knew what he was trying to do. He refused to entertain any other possibilities. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley was constitutionally incapable of accepting unanswered questions, and there were too many of them. There was no obvious reason for Aziraphale's body to lack sexuality. His angel had every body part, inside and out, that was required. Crowley was deeply suspicious of heaven. They'd controlled Aziraphale for so long, limited his miracles, bullied him. Crowley was sure in his heart that someone in heaven had broken his angel. It infuriated Crowley that, even now, this mark of their control was still upon him. Crowley couldn't storm heaven, that was too dangerous. But God might not realize what her angels had done to Aziraphale, and Crowley could bring it to Her attention directly. 

The problem was how to do it. 

Keeping a secret from Aziraphale while regularly sharing his body should have been impossible, but Crowley was a master of deception. The first key to a lie, he knew, is to make it as small as possible in your own mind, and to keep your attention on other things that are very emotionally salient to you. So Crowley reveled in his daily epicurean pleasures and expended almost every spare bit of his daily thought process on how to gently introduce his best friend to new sexual experiences. Only a tiny bit of his mind, a part that was never allowed to reach his consciousness, ever worked on the problem of how to talk to God. 

That tiny part of his brain ruminated and came up with some parameters.

First: He needed a direct connection. A church seemed best, but he wanted to have some measure of dignity, and hopping around in pain was not how he wanted to appear before his Creator. If he was going to have enough time to make his case, then he needed to protect his feet. He considered stilts, but rejected them as too undignified. That left shoes with thick soles. The thicker the better. 

Second: He needed to get Her attention. If possible, he wanted to appear in his true form, wings and all. He needed to remind Her of what he was. He was still technically an angel, never fully Fallen, one of the rare denizens of Hell to still have wings and to share the nearly unblemished form and likeness of Her. He was created in Her image as much as Her beloved humans were and, if he was going to ask something of Her, he was going to make sure to remind Her of that. 

Third: He shouldn't use magic. He should approach Her humbly, put some effort in, make a pilgrimage. Like a human petitioner might do. 

In the first week of October, Crowley chanced to be shopping in a store and his eyes fell on the Halloween decorations. His plan came together in his mind almost instantly. It would take him only two weeks to get all the elements he needed to execute it. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley's was an inverted disguise. The people he passed thought they saw a human pretending to be a demonic angel. The parts they thought were the most unreal-- the wings, the teeth, the eyes-- were the most real aspects of Crowley. The rest-- corset and makeup and wild hair-- this was the guise. The passers by had never seen a human bearing wings that individually made adjustments to counterbalance every step they took, nor slit-eyed pupils that adjusted to the light and shadow of each street light. But the disguise held. Crowley's clothing choice announced a transgression past the boundary of gender, and once this boundary was breached, any other divergence from human form was also permitted. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley was a professional at deception. He knew that if a person is trying to pull off something, such as a small and secret pilgrimage, without being noticed, chaos is essential. Accordingly, on the same day that his plan revealed itself to him, Crowley proposed to Aziraphale that it would be a good time for him to pack up his flat and move into the shop. When a few boxes arrived to the flat by post, they would be easy to conceal among all the others. And Crowley had plenty of "packing time" that he could spend alone doing the necessary research and online shopping so that he could dress himself for his pilgrimage. 

Aziraphale never suspected, despite how frequently their souls touched. As long as Crowley's thoughts never strayed to what he was doing during his "packing" hours, Aziraphale couldn't find out. An important technique for concealing information is giving the other person lots to think about. Novelty is the key to a good distraction. Accordingly, Crowley made sure to attend readings, plays, and concerts with Aziraphale. As extra insurance, Crowley also made sure that a few new sex toys arrived at the shop during the critical time period. Whenever he was sharing a body with Aziraphale, there were plenty of engrossing sensations, so that his thoughts, and Aziraphale's, were always on the present pleasures. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, girl, you are giving me religion!"

"Stop and talk, don't be so cruel!"

The church was six blocks away from the shop. He was three blocks away now, and he was low on time. Crowley placed his feet, heel to toe, one in front of the other, with especial care, using his wings for balance where the sidewalk was uneven. When he passed overly friendly humans, the haughty look he gave them ensured that they would not dare to touch any part of him. He let them stare though. This was a good time of year for humans to be awed and afraid. And fear made sure that they got out of his way. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

YouTube had had most of the information he needed. Crowley could set up his computer amidst the boxes at his flat and watch the videos and practice the human skills he needed to dress in this new way. He had used modern make up for years, but he decided to do something dramatic with the eye shadow-- sweep it all the way up his temples in reds and oranges and dark browns. Getting the shape and colors right required practice. 

The corset had been unexpectedly hard to find. The problem was the wings. He finally found one with a very low back and a strap around the neck. It had an attached skirt, which solved the whole tucking problem. Thank somebody. He was going to be uncomfortable enough walking over holy ground; he hardly needed any other discomfort. He was slim, so he elected to add padding to hips and chest to get the right figure. 

Even with the low back, however, the corset didn't quite fit. It laced in the back, and he could only lace it half way up before he reached the point where his wings needed to emerge. No human drag queen had posted a helpful video about how to handle this situation. He found that he could fold the excess fabric under itself to give his wings room, but that lost him the top half of the laces, and they were needed structurally. The garment kept falling away from his sides. Spirit gum was the answer he came to. The sides of the corset needed to be glued to his ribs. Not comfortable, but livable. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Tidy!"

"We love you, Dark Angel!"

Crowley nodded at the humans as he passed. He couldn't slow down, but oddly, their support gave a bit of a boost to his courage. He tried to rehearse his speech, but it kept flying out of his mind. He hoped that artless and honest words would be pleasing to God, because that was all he was likely to be able to manage. Less than two blocks to go. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The most important principle for concealing information is to arrange things so that you never actually have to tell a lie. Everything you say should be completely true, so that your emotions always align with your words. Crowley told the angel that he wanted to open boxes tonight. And then maybe go out somewhere for an hour or so. He implied that the somewhere was a club. But he didn't say it. Aziraphale had wanted to go to a poetry reading. He had been saddened that Crowley didn't want to come. But they'd been together almost constantly for the past eight weeks, and Aziraphale missed his human friends. Crowley sent him away, gesturing impatiently at several dozen boxes of his possessions that were stacked up in the sitting room of the bookshop. The four boxes that had recently come in the post hardly stood out in the stacks. 

What Crowley said was completely true. There was one particular box, delayed in shipping, that had just arrived this afternoon. The contents were the linchpin to tonight's plan. As soon as the angel left, he opened it, verified that the boots' size and style were correct, and then set the box aside and started getting dressed. Forty five minutes later he realized his first mistake. 

Boots before corset. 

It seemed obvious in retrospect, of course. But Crowley had been so concerned with the complicated process of securing the corset that he hadn't realized that, of course, he'd need to bend over to lace the boots. He checked the time. Two hours and twenty-seven minutes till midnight. 

Crowley unbuckled and unzipped the corset. It flopped open in front. He peeled it free of his sides, cursing. Then he put his foot up on the sofa, and, using his wings for balance, started to worm his foot into the first thigh high leather boot. 

It was only once the first boot was zipped all the way up that Crowley realized how long it would take to adjust the laces. He pulled himself up to lean on the arm of the sofa. Then he doubled himself over and started pulling on the laces at his foot. It was a two hand job. The laces were ribbons, and they tended to slip backwards as he tightened. He had to go from bottom to top three times before the job was done. Then he tested the flex of the boot. He loosened the laces a little and worked the slack evenly along the length of his leg. He bent his knee again. Perfect. He latched the buckles of the three straps on the boot. He checked the time. Only one hour and fifty-one minutes to go and he still had to do the other boot. And reattach the corset. And do make up. And hair. And walk there.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gate of this particular church was not locked, nor was the door. They were old fashioned and they kept it open, in case someone might need refuge. That's why he'd picked this church. No magic needed. 

Crowley pushed open the gate and strode up to the door. He took a deep breath and held it. He put his hand on the metal handle and pulled the heavy door open as his breath hissed through his teeth. Somehow, he managed to let go of the handle and wrap his burning hand around the edge of the door and hold it open for himself. He plastered his wings tightly against his back and stepped inside. He felt the air begin to prickle around him. His feet did not burn yet. There were seven inches between the balls of his feet and the holy ground. He didn't know how much time seven inches would buy him. It had to be enough. He forced himself to remain calm. So far it was working. He shook out the pain in his hand and made himself examine the small room that he was in.

It was the entryway of the church. On the right hand wall, he saw the font of Holy Water. He had expected it to be inside the sanctuary itself, and here it was in the entryway. He edged away from it, but kept it in view. He flicked his eyes toward the door of the sanctuary, and tried to decide whether to use the same hand that was already hurting or to use the other one. At that moment, a door opened in the wall behind him. He shrieked and half turned around.

It was only a man. He was dressed like a guard. 

The human guard looked up at the towering being with golden reptilian eyes and sable black wings that extended two feet above his head and all the way down to his knees. He looked Crowley over, taking in the black, ten inch stiletto heeled, thigh high boots, the black lacy skirt, the leather and lace corset, the elaborate make up, and the mane of wild red hair, and he saw only a human in a costume. A drag queen in Soho ten days before Halloween. 

"Can I help you?", he asked. "Are you lost?" 

"I came to talk to God."


	9. Crowley In Drag-- Illustration By Nix Laurel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An illustration of Crowley in Drag by Nix Laurel

Crowley in drag.

[](https://www.deviantart.com/junedelph/art/Fallen-Angel-Drag-Queen-831744148)

[Fallen Angel Drag Queen](https://www.deviantart.com/junedelph/art/Fallen-Angel-Drag-Queen-831744148) by [JuneDelph](https://www.deviantart.com/junedelph)

Linked with permission by the artist.


	10. Are you there God? it's me Crowley.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon in drag asks some important questions.

"I came to talk to God."

"Of course," said the guard. He gestured toward the doors to the sanctuary. 

"It would help a lot if you were to open those doors for me," said Crowley. It was the truth. It wasn't the whole truth. But it wasn't a lie. 

The guard looked up at Crowley's massive wings and then down at his stiletto heels, and nodded his assent. 

The guard opened one of the massive carved wooden doors. Crowley shook his head and gestured at the size of his wingspan. The guard kicked a door stopper in front of the first door. Then he opened the second door and kicked a stopper in front of it. The guard was standing on his left, far from the holy water. 

Crowley took a few steps toward the sanctuary. Ahead of him was a dark room filled with dark wooden pews, all facing away from him. White stone columns rose out of the centers of some of the rows of pews, but Crowley couldn't see the tops of them. There was an impression of great height, but the little bit of light entering the sanctuary from the entryway did not extend up to the top of the cathedral. There was some light coming from the far end of the church, where, many stories up, there were thin rectangles of dim light that must be windows. 

Suddenly the sanctuary exploded with brightness. Crowley threw his hands up in front of his face and braced himself for pain. A moment later, he heard the echo of his shout reverberating around the enormous room. Then the lightness dimmed significantly. Crowley dared to open his eyes and instantly felt like an idiot. Of course there was electric light. There was electric light in any modern building. 

"You alright?", said the guard. 

"Fine. Sensitive eyes." 

The now dimly lit sconces were at the tops of the stone columns, which supported two parallel lines of great white stone arches that lined the sides of the huge cathedral. The arches bisected the rows of pews, so that half of the pews were under the shelter of the partial second floor, and the pews toward the center of the church could look up at the elaborate stone balconies that overlooked the aisle. Those balconies were framed by a second layer of stone arches, directly atop the first layer, and above that was past where the lights of the sconces could reach. Somewhere above, in the darkness, there was a ceiling. 

Crowley put one hand through frame of the double doors and felt that the air of the cathedral was thick with a holiness that made his skin prickle. Churches could get holier with age, and this one had. Crowley took two deliberate steps inside. 

The sensation on his skin was like prickles all over. It was more disconcerting than painful. On the other hand, he felt a little safer with the door frame between him and the deadly liquid in the entryway. No pain yet in his feet. There might be the tiniest suggestion of an uncomfortable sensation, but it could be his imagination. There were seven inches between the balls of his feet and the holy ground. Ten inches for his heels. 

Crowley looked at the dozens of rows of pews in front of him. He took the next step. The clack of his heel on the stone echoed through the building. He could still hear the echoes when he made the next step. He walked carefully, one foot in front of the other, heel to toe, keeping to the exact center of the aisle. His wings, tucked against his back, cleared the pews on both sides with plenty of room to spare. 

  
He reached the middle of the church and the echoes stopped a few long seconds later. The church was in the shape of a Christian cross. The long aisle Crowley had just walked up formed the bottom of the cross. He was now standing at the intersection of it, in a wide aisle that ran in front of the pews and led to alcoves on each side of the church. The apse of the church, dimly lit in front of him, had a bowed stone wall that went up so high that he had to tilt his head back to see the tall windows built into steep stone recesses at the top. 

Midway up the wall, flanked by tall metal pipes, was a dark wooden cross that was more than twice as tall as a man. It was plain and thick and heavy. It wasn't stained by years of blood and shit but if it had been stuck on the side of a dusty Roman road, it could have easily have served its ancient purpose. Crowley's stomach twisted at the sight of it. He turned his face away, but his mind had already supplied the well memorized sound of its victims. The desperate and all too shallow breaths, the quiet cry of pain as strength gave way and iron ground against bone, and then the long silence as failing muscles gathered themselves to battle for the next breath. The slow motion vertical writhing of pinned human flesh had been an unavoidable part of Crowley's life for five hundred years, and now he had gotten so soft that even the memory of it made him want to flee. 

Somewhere, only a few blocks away, were warm arms and a soft body, the smell of cloves and bergamot, and familiar musty air that didn't make his skin hurt. Crowley turned around completely. His eyes fell on the human guard, who was all the way down the aisle, standing just inside the doorway of the sanctuary. 

He was afraid, but he wasn't alone. He could pray with the human. It might even work better that way. She listened to humans. She loved them. And if he had a human with him, she might listen to him better. 

"Is this your church?", Crowley asked.

"Of course," said the guard.

"This is the church where you attend?" It was important to be clear.

"Yes." 

"Can you come up here and help me pray?"

The man nodded and walked up the aisle. 

Crowley stepped aside when the man reached where he was standing. He looked at him and waved him back with his hands. 

"I need some room. Ten paces." The guard looked uncertain, but Crowley made a clarifying motion with his hands, and the man took ten long steps towards the side of the cathedral. Crowley moved to stand at the exact center of the intersection. He was feeling an uncomfortable warmth in the balls of his feet. But it was manageable. 

Crowley spread his wings out. The sound of the air that they moved echoed softly through the cathedral. The guard made an exhalation. Crowley glanced at the guard. His eyes were wide, but they were the wide eyes of a man who was seeing a drag queen in Soho with a tremendous piece of mechanical art on her back. The guard turned to face the front of the church. He clasped his hands in front of his body and lowered his head. He waited in respectful silence. 

The phone vibrated against Crowley's leg. It was midnight. It was October the 21st, a nothing day to most mortals, but it would matter to Her. Crowley raised his eyes past the symbol of the cruel might of the Roman Empire to the distant and unlit ceiling. He spread his arms out and turned his palms up. 

"Mother!", he shouted. 

He waited for the echos to die down before he spoke again.

"Almighty One!"

"It's me Crowley."

"I'm here with this man. So that makes two of us gathered in your name."

"I remembered that it was your big day!"

"Birthday of the Earth. Closest I could get to your birthday. You never mentioned when that was. Or if you had one."

"It's been a few weeks while since we've talked."

"Aziraphale and I did some things. I hope they were the things you wanted. Kind of hard to tell."

Crowley paused an extra long time. He wasn't expecting a reply, but he wanted to leave room for one, just in case.

"Right, well, first I wanted to thank you for keeping the Earth going. It's really lovely, would have broken my heart to lose it."

Crowley glanced over at the guard. The guard kept his eyes solemnly lowered. He didn't look afraid. Serious. Almost grim. Perhaps he was praying to the Almighty that She not take offense at Crowley being in Her sanctuary. That could only be good for Crowley. The soles of his feet were starting to feel prickles of hot pain. He'd better get on with it.

Crowley glanced at the human and calculated his next words. He didn't want to scare the human. That might upset Her. But the human didn't seem to mind anything he was saying, so he plunged on.

"I don't know what kind of bullshit lies Gabriel told you, but Aziraphale did everything he could to try to convince them to stop the war-- he wanted them to be as good as he is. He gave them every chance before he opposed them. And then, when the the time came, he was the one who figured out what your real plan was. He stood up to all of them. He stood up to Luc--" Crowley glanced at the human. "To a very scary individual. I was going to give up, but he wouldn't let me."

"Aziraphale did that to save Your creation. This creation whose birthday it is today." 

The prickly feeling was starting to spread to his ankles. There was definitely a lot of heat. But it was bearable. Crowley glanced at the human, to see if he was frightened, but the human was still staring at the floor with his hands clasped in front of him. 

"Mother, I've fallen in love with him. He's everything to me."

"I hope that You love him too."

The cramping in the muscles of his calves was making his ankles wobbly, but his enormous wingspan gave him plenty of balance. He'd just have to be quick. He was having a bit of trouble concentrating, so the words tumbled out faster. 

"I think the other angels took one of Your gifts from him. It doesn't make sense to me Mother, that I can enjoy sex and he can't. He's better than I am in every way, and that's why I think that it's something that Heaven did to him. And I thought.... if it doesn't have to be... if it isn't by Your will that his body can't do what mine can, then I want to ask You to fix him."

His feet were starting to seize up inside the boots. He shifted his weight very slightly from one side to the other, and moved his wings to balance himself. It helped a little.

"I need you to know that I'm grateful to you for giving him to me. I'm grateful every single day that I can wake up in his arms. I'll never stop being grateful for that. And if this crazy complicated way of making love is the only thing we'll ever have, if you tell me that that's the price we pay for immortality then I'll take it." 

Crowley was now rocking stiffly from foot to foot. The muscles of his calves were now completely locked up, and the numbness was spreading upward to the insides of his thighs. He had to fight his body's instinct to beat his wings. He knew that if he did that, the human would know what he was, and be terrified. But there was one more thing Crowley had to say, and he said it in between hitching breaths. 

"Aziraphale doesn't know I'm here. He's grateful for what we have. He'd never ask for more. So if what I asked is something You don't want to give, I need you to know that it was just me asking questions, like I always do."

"Right... I have to go Mother.... I can't stay anymore. I hope I haven't upset You."

Crowley crumpled his wings so that he could not be tempted to push the air down to get himself away from the burning floor. He turned his face to the human and held out his hands. "Help me."

The man walked closer and Crowley threw himself at him. 

"Can't walk. Feet cramping. Help me."

"Why don't you sit?"

"Not here. Can't sit here. Please. Outside."

The guard wrapped an arm around Crowley's waist and Crowley threw his arms over the man's shoulders from the side. The man was strong and he took a lot of the weight. Crowley staggered, stiff-legged, and cried at every step. His mind was very foggy from the pain, but he knew that if he bit his lip, it would put lipstick on his teeth. He tried not to do that. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
The Guard didn't understand why anyone would wear shoes that hurt so badly. The poor angel drag queen had been whimpering with every step. It wasn't his place to judge other people's choices, though. This person, however strange, had wanted to talk to God. That's why the guard was here. Impractical shoes were not nearly the worst problem someone had ever brought to the church. Any night that he didn't have to call an ambulance was an easy night's work. 

When they got to the entry way, the guard tried to bring the angel drag queen over to the bench next to the font but the poor thing started to scream and throw herself at the door. So the guard opened the door to the outside and the angel drag queen launched herself out, rolled out the door and ended up sitting on the concrete, her arms splayed out behind her, her ridiculous thigh high leather boots sprawled out in front of her and her enormous wings spread out behind her. 

The guard came outside and crouched down next to her. He looked into her eyes, but couldn't tell how they looked through the stupid vanity contact lenses. He really hoped that tonight wouldn't be an ambulance night. 

"You alright there? Got a phone on you? Anybody you need me to call?"

The drag queen leaned back on her elbows, dropped her chin to her chest, and closed her eyes. The guard listened to the slowing breaths and then reached past the ridiculous amount of feathers to put his hand lightly on the drag queen's shoulder.

"Hey. Can you tell me your name?"

" 'll be fine." 

"Can you tell me what you took tonight?"

The drag queen didn't answer. But as long as she was still propped up on her elbows, she must be at least partly conscious. 

The guard tried another question. "Do you know where you are right now?"

The reply was faint but sarcastic. " 'm outside a bloody church lying in a mess of filthy leaves."

"Do you have a friend or a family member that we can call?"

"Just need to rest," said the drag queen. 

The guard stood up. He looked the drag queen over. He decided that he should watch and wait and keep her talking. Sometimes, with people like this, calling an ambulance caused more trouble than it solved. As long as she stayed conscious and didn't have any more episodes, it should be safe. Hopefully whatever drugs she'd taken would work their way out of her system.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley was sprawled on the floor of the city, staring up at the starless grey sky, leaning back on his elbows, his legs splayed in front of him. After fifteen minutes, his calves were still cramping; he couldn't feel his feet at all. His wings were half stretched out to the sides, brushing the ground and all the filth thereupon. There wasn't enough room to extend them, and if brought them in closer they would be crushed under his back. 

The human that had dragged him out of the church was standing off to his side, watching over him. 

"Thanks," said Crowley, looking up with as much dignity as he could muster, "You were a big help."

"How are you feeling now?", said the guard.

"Does She usually talk to you?"

"Er?", said the guard.

"You're here all night. You must talk to Her all the time. Does She ever even show up? Does She answer you?"

"There must be somebody who is worried about you tonight," said the guard. "Why don't we give them a call?"

"She never answers my questions. Never. It's always just silence. Not sure why I thought tonight would be different. I guess I thought I finally was starting to understand Her plan. I thought: 'We did the right thing, just like She wanted, maybe we're in her good books. Maybe we've earned a favor.' But, then again, look what She let happen to Her own son. He was supposed to be the favorite. What kind of chance do the rest of us even have? I shouldn't have expected anything."

A funny expression crossed the guard's face. 

"You really do think God is a woman?"

"No," said Crowley. "I'm not stupid. She just looks like one. Or She did. Could look like anything now. Maybe She looks like a dragonfly. Or a lake monster. How should I know? She doesn't talk to me."

Another funny look from the guard.

"That sounds really hard."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "I gave up on Her ever answering my questions. She doesn't like me. But I thought maybe She liked him. What's not to like? He's kind. He's generous. He looks out for everyone. But if She won't even lift a finger for him, I guess I'm done with Her."

"You're giving up on God?"

"S'okay," said Crowley. "I'll get by. Always have. I've got him now. I'll just do for him. Make him happy. At least he loves me back."

"Well," said the guard, "I'm glad you have someone who cares about you."

"And I've got all this," said Crowley, gesturing at the sky and the buildings. "For as long as it lasts. Could be a couple decades. Maybe more. S'enough. Gotta take what I can get."

"If I may," said the guard, "If God didn't answer you tonight, it doesn't necessarily mean that there won't be an answer. In the future."

"Does God answer your questions?"

"Always."

"Must be nice," said Crowley, bitterly. "Next time you talk to Her, ask Her what the bloody point of it all is. Ask her what we are all supposed to do when our jobs are to trick and hurt people, and we can't just quit or we'll lose everything."

"Huh. That's a tough question."

"While you're at it, ask her how we are supposed to fight back when we have so little power. Ask her why the beings that don't even care about day to day life on this Earth have all the power over it."

The guard nodded, but Crowley didn't give him time to answer. He just rolled on.

"Ask her why we have to choose between being part of the machine that wants to destroy it all, or being destroyed ourselves? Ask her why the best we seem to be able to hope for is to eek out a few private moments of joy while we wait for the whole thing to end? Ask her those things. Maybe she'll answer you."

"Well," said the guard, very slowly, "For me, sometimes when I have trouble understanding God's answers to the big questions, I find it easier to just focus on just being kind to the person that's in front of me."

"That's your answer?", said Crowley, incredulously. "Be kind?"

"It's a start."

"That's what Jesus said. Look what it got him. Pinned to a post."

"Jesus got a bit more than that," said the guard. "He got eternal life, for one thing."

"Eternal life isn't all it's cracked up to be," said Crowley. "Just get to be miserable for longer."

"Life can't be so miserable if you have someone to love, right?"

"Huh," said Crowley. "Yeah, I...." He wriggled his toes. They seemed to be alright. The pain was almost completely gone. "I should be getting back to him. Give me a hand getting up?" 

When the guard pulled him to his feet, Crowley found that he could walk. 

Crowley walked in a circle, testing his feet. Then he pulled his wings forward and groaned at what he saw. He pulled a few dried leaves out of one wing, then stepped back from the human and shook them both vigorously. A light rain of dust and small debris fell from them. He drew them up over his head and then snapped them back down again. A few more leaves fell out.

"Wow," said the guard. "I've never seen anything like that. Where did you even get those?"

"Custom made," said Crowley. "Thanks again for your help. Happy Halloween."

"Happy Halloween. Be safe out there."

Crowley slipped through the gate and back out onto the sidewalk. His feet didn't hurt too much, his legs had stopped cramping, and he had two perfectly good wings to balance him if he should start to stumble. God hadn't smote him for his impertinence, he'd twice stood next to holy water and lived, and he was heading home to his beautiful angel. He felt rather optimistic.


	11. Divine Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley very nearly manages to get away with lying to Aziraphale.

As Crowley closed the church gate, he felt curiously light. He'd faced his fears and he'd survived. And he had a bit of an insight. God hadn't answered any of his questions, but, when he'd unleashed some of his oldest and angriest questions at the human, the human had answered those questions. The answer was simplistic, like a human answer would be, but maybe it would do. "Be kind to the person in front of you." Easy enough. He would do what the human suggested. He felt a certain belligerent pride in taking the human's advice. 

It occurred to him that the next time he was inclined to shout up at the sky, he should just slip into a pub and ask his question of whichever human he could get to listen to him. Why shouldn't the humans be his oracles? Wouldn't it be better, by far, to follow the random advice of a stranger than to spend millennia pining after true answers? If saving all of Earth wasn't enough to get Her to explain her divine plan to him, nothing would. He was giving up on the divine plan. From now on, he would just be like a pinball, ricocheting off of one human after another, doing whatever random things they suggested. 

What did he really need God for anyway? If he had questions, he could just ask the humans. If he wanted love, he had Aziraphale. Fuck Her. As of now, Crowley was a free demon, free to enjoy his immortal life in any way he pleased, for as long as he could, until Heaven and Hell decided to destroy the Earth. 

There was still the question that he'd started the evening with. Aziraphale couldn't use his body in all the human ways, and Crowley had no idea how that problem could be solved, or if it could be solved. But She wasn't going to help. And Crowley had no other ideas. That, in itself, was freeing. He'd done his best for his true love. He'd gone and made his pilgrimage. Now there was nothing to do but accept life as it was and enjoy what could be enjoyed together. It was a relief. All he had to do now was get home to his beautiful angel.

It was a gorgeous night. It was crisp and cool, like it should be. There was a slight breeze that ran across his bare shoulders and arms and tickled his legs though the lacy skirt. It was refreshing, and it was just enough to keep him from overheating from all the leather he was wearing. He rolled his shoulders in pleasure as he strutted his way home. At this late hour, with almost no one on the street, he felt like owned the whole city. He walked the narrow sidewalk like it was his own personal runway.

"I think I've died and gone to Hell, because it is HOT around here."

"Look at how this demon queen moves!"

There were a few humans on the other side of the quiet street. They had stopped to stare. Crowley stared back with inhuman eyes, raised his wings, curled his lip, and hissed at them. 

They started shrieking with delight. 

"If that's what Hell looks like, baby, I better make sure I sin plenty."

Crowley had plenty of time now. And he was going to be kind to the people in front of him. He let the three young men come over and take a selfie. They were buzzed and cheerful and just catty enough to be fun. 

"These gorgeous wings must weigh a ton, and there you are in those heels moving like that. Bitch, that's not even fair."

"Oh, honey," said Crowley, "I've been walking in heels longer than you've been walking."

They laughed. He gave them a little blessing as he left them. They whistled and shouted until he turned the corner. It was good. 

The next part of the plan was easy enough. Earlier in the day, Crowley had dropped a change of clothes in a little alley a block and a half from the book shop. There was a hidden spot there where he'd be concealed, and a crate to perch on. He could change into some club clothes and drop his new shoes and his corset and padding into the Bentley before slipping into the shop. 

Aziraphale would be enjoying a nice cup of cocoa and reading in the back, and Crowley would saunter in and cuddle up with him and ask about his poetry night. The make up and the hair wouldn't be too alarming. And Crowley would explain that humans sometimes wore contact lenses that made them look like animals. Especially near Halloween. 

Crowley was nearly in sight of his changing alley when another group of merry humans came around the corner at the far end of the block. He paused in a spot where his wings would be backlit and struck a dramatic pose. The humans applauded and whistled. He sauntered toward them. 

"Look at the wings, they move with her body!"

"Beast."

"I could never walk in those!"

"She's kind of an angel, but scary."

They ran up the sidewalk and surrounded him, filling the air with their cheerful talk. Crowley basked in their praise. 

"You look amazing."

"Holy Shit! Her eyes!"

"I'm checking out these fabulous boots."

"Anthony is that you?"

Crowley suddenly recognized the woman who had delivered his food on the first day and another person who had stopped by the shop one afternoon. His happiness vanished. Trouble loomed. He now had, at most, a day or two before Aziraphale would find out about this expedition. He smiled and preened before the humans while his frantic mind sorted through possible explanations to find the one that would be most plausible to his angel. 

"It's Zira Fell's Anthony isn't it? Do you remember me?"

"Zira never mentioned that you did drag!"

"Can I just touch these wings?"

"We just dropped him off at the shop a minute ago."

"Not the wings," Crowley said "They're very delicate." He held them up high and out of the way.

"Wow, the movement on them is unreal. How do you control them?"

"Can you do it again?"

Crowley was trying to extricate himself as politely as he could when around the corner came the person he was not yet prepared to deal with. Aziraphale. The angel hurried towards him, scanning the street for dangers and came to a stop an arms length away from Crowley. He looked up at Crowley's glorious black wings, raised above his head. His brows were knitted in confusion and anger. He searched Crowley's face anxiously for a clue.

Crowley used his eyes to tell Aziraphale that there was no danger anywhere about. Aziraphale took a deep breath and he started to tremble. His face darkened. He looked Crowley over again very slowly, from the bottom of his ten inch stiletto heels to the tips of his outstretched wings. He breathed very deliberately and very slowly. 

Most of Aziraphale's human friends caught on to the fact that all was not well, and they fell silent. 

One of the women, younger than the rest, and not blessed with as much social awareness as the others, said "Well we can't keep calling you Anthony. What is your drag name?"

There was utter silence.

Aziraphale turned to the poor girl and answered her, "Miss Divine Wrath." 

She nodded appreciatively, "That's perfect. Scary sexy angel. Divine Wrath."

Aziraphale continued smoothly. "Well, it's been a wonderful evening, but if you'll excuse us, I need to take this remarkable creature home and have my way with her." 

He slipped his arm around Crowley's waist very firmly and started off towards home.

"I'm so sorry," said one of the young men, in a small voice. "I never meant to cause trouble."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale shut and locked the front door of the shop. He pivoted slowly. 

"Are we in danger?", asked Aziraphale. 

"No. Absolutely not," answered Crowley.

"What did you do tonight?"

"Walked around. Had a few interesting conversations. Never left the area." No lies there. 

Aziraphale chewed on his lower lip. He walked around the dark angel whose wings filled his shop. 

Crowley was standing under the oval at the center of the bookshop with his wings making good use of the empty space above him. He was taking up the center of the shop like it was all rightly his, and it felt natural and good. 

"At least tell me I look beautiful," said Crowley. 

"My God," said Aziraphale. "The very first evening I go out with my friends. The very first time I let you out of my sight and I find you like this. Wings out for the whole of London to see. Asking for trouble with every step you take in those ridiculous--"

"Sexy, the boots are sexy."

"What were you thinking? I can't even imagine why you would risk everything we have to parade around like this." He stalked over to his desk and picked up his new mobile phone and swiped at the screen. "How many humans took your picture tonight? Look at this! Before my friends even knew it was you they texted this to me." 

"So what? So a few humans took my picture."

"We can't be attracting attention to ourselves. We are on our own here. Do you understand how vulnerable we are? If anything had happened--" Aziraphale was nearly sobbing.

Crowley felt his own heart breaking. 

"Look at me Aziraphale. I would never put you or us at risk. This is Halloween season in Soho. Anything goes. No one is going to break out the pitchforks and torches if they see someone that looks a little strange. Not one human ever suspected that I was anything but another human in a costume."

"Why, Crowley? Why would you even do such a thing?"

In Crowley's experience, the best way to prevent someone from finding out about one emotionally charged secret is to talk about something else that has equal emotional weight. "I wanted to be seen in my true form tonight," said Crowley. This was, strictly speaking, true. Not a lie. And it had a ring of emotional truth to it that startled even him. 

"So you just pranced around the streets of London with your wings out and your eyes showing just to feel good?"

"It did feel good," said Crowley. He added: "It must be nice to be able to show your eyes to the public all fifty two weeks of the year." A good fight always distracts from the truth, without technically being a lie.

Aziraphale crumpled into a chair, his eyes filled with genuine sympathy. "I'm so sorry. I forget how hard it is for you, having to hide all the time."

So much for the fight plan. Crowley needed to think fast. He needed to fill time so that he could think. The words that came out of his mouth next were a surprise to him.

"They saw me as beautiful tonight." 

He found himself babbling. 

"They looked at the marks of my fall and they didn't think I was monster. They said my eyes were striking. They loved the color of my wings. This-- these boots, this outfit -- it let them see me as I am." He looked down at Aziraphale, whose face was a battleground of emotions. 

"They called me an angel," said Crowley. 

His voice had cracked at the end. He hadn't expected that. He hadn't expected any of those words to come out, and now that he'd heard himself say them, he realized that he was near to tears. 

"You're right," said Aziraphale, at last. "I'm being silly."

Inwardly, Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. He was home safe, and he wasn't in trouble. He listened as his sweet partner filled the air with loving words. 

"It's not that dangerous for you to dress up for Halloween. Of course. I'm sorry that I've been so tense. Sometimes I get so worried about losing you that I... well... I'm just sorry that I made you feel like you had to hide it from me when you only wanted to have a little fun." 

Aziraphale stood up and walked over to him. He tilted his head up and studied the autumn colors that extended from around Crowley's eyes and up to his temples. He looked at the dark rouge on strong cheekbones and the wild mass of artfully tangled auburn hair. 

"Your make up is impressive," Aziraphale said. "It looks like stage make up. You look a little like a wood fairy from a show I saw a few years ago."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "It took some time to learn to do the makeup"

Aziraphale reached out and traced the waist of the corset with his fingertip. 

"It's odd to see you with curves," Aziraphale said. "You've never had curves like that before."

"You like?"

The angel nodded. 

"You look beautiful. You look fierce and sexy and only a little unworldly. It's really well done. The colors you picked really show off your eyes. The heels make your legs look great. I should have said all that at the beginning. I let my fear get in the way of appreciating you. I am so sorry. I don't even know how to make it up to you."

"Didn't you promise to have your way with me?", Crowley said. 

Aziraphale was happy to help him undress. He sat Crowley down on the old sofa. He admired the boots properly before taking them off. He pulled his arm chair in front of the sofa for Crowley to lean on while he ran his hands over his wings and gently pulled the last of the leaves out. He even used a tiny miracle to get the corset unstuck from Crowley's back. Considering that the angel hadn't dared use a miracle in weeks, it was a peace offering. 

Aziraphale took Crowley to bed. It was soon clear to Crowley that his prayer had not been answered. Exactly as he expected. He kept his thoughts, and his face, under control and soon the angel's impressive oral skills distracted him completely. He happily traded bodies with Aziraphale and gently fucked him with his fingers and a toy until the angel was glassy eyed and breathless in his borrowed body. Then Crowley finished him off with his mouth and let Aziraphale pull him back into his own body so they could both share the afterglow. They drifted off to sleep cuddled together in Crowley's body.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Crowley woke up completely alone. He rolled out of bed and pulled something warm on and then padded downstairs. He couldn't find the angel anywhere. It was quiet in the shop. There was a note on the angel's desk. 

_ **I'll be out until evening. ** _

_ **Text when you wake. ** _

_ **We can talk when I return. ** _

_ ** A.** _

Crowley ran upstairs to his phone.

I'm up. Where RU? [ C ] 

[ A ] Walking around. Having a few interesting conversations.

What does that mean? [ C ]

[ A ] Same thing it meant when you said it. 

[ A ] I'm safe. I'll talk to you tonight. 

Damned angel. 

With nothing else to do, Crowley started unpacking the boxes that were sitting in the back room of the shop. 


	12. First real fight of the marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is ignored while Aziraphale and Crowley fight about sex, lies, and their heavenly in-laws.

Aziraphale came home in the early evening. He brought home a brown bag. It wasn't a hot meal. But it was still food for Crowley. 

"Prosciutto over pasta salad," said the angel, setting it down on a table. "It will keep. Talk first."

"What are we talking about?" 

"Try again. This time bear in mind that last night, as you drifted off to sleep, your soul was still wrapped around mine. I saw your dreams."

"Huh," said Crowley. He sat down. This was going to be a long conversation.

"Going forward," said the angel, "It would be a good idea for you to remember that we can either share our life the way we have been sharing or we can lie to each other. It isn't physically possible to have it both ways."

"What did you see in my dream?"

"You went into a church. You were afraid of the holy water. You were afraid of a man. Your feet hurt. You talked to God about our sex life. Did I miss anything?"

"No, that's about what happened."

"So," said the angel, as he paced the floor in front of Crowley, "Obviously I know what you did and why you did it. I even have a little sympathy for why you wanted to keep it hidden from me. Although, to be honest, I think that your desire to spare my feelings was not as strong as your desire to avoid the conversation we are about to have."

"Aziraphale, I--"

"Not finished," said the angel. "The love of my life put his immortal life at risk in the hopes of getting a miracle, and I didn't even get to know that he was doing it."

"The risk wasn't that great. It's not like they throw holy water on you when you walk into the door."

"But it was a risk. A risk YOU chose for both of us. A risk we should have discussed. A risk you took alone, when having me along would have made that risk far smaller."

"Aziraphale," said Crowley, "I refuse to spend my life living in fear, trying to calculate every tiny risk. My everyday life as a demon was always full of risks. And any day now Hell could come for me again. I'm not going to stop trying to get the things we want just so we can have some kind of illusion of safety. There is no perfect safety, Angel! There never was. There was just your delusion that Heaven was taking care of you." 

"I'm under no delusions that we are safe," said Aziraphale. He collapsed onto the couch next to Crowley. "I just don't want to lose us so soon. I can't..." He shook his head and put his face into his hands. 

"I wanted to get you a gift. I made a try, it didn't happen. No consequences." 

"Was it a gift for me or a gift for you?" 

"For us, Angel."

Aziraphale lifted his head out of his hands. His cheeks were wet and red. His eyelashes glistened with tears. 

"It's that important to you that we aren't able to have sex like humans do."

"It's not that important," Crowley said. "We have more than enough blessings already. That's what I told Her."

Aziraphale pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. He wiped his eyes and gathered himself.

"If it wasn't important to you, you wouldn't have gone through so much trouble," said Aziraphale. "That's why I talked to Madam Tracy today. After you have had your dinner, I'll tell you what she had to say." 

There was no way that Crowley was going to enjoy dinner knowing that the second half of the fight was coming. He picked up the brown bag, put it into the mini fridge under the counter, and sat down on the sofa. 

"Well?", said Crowley. "What did the great Madam Tracy have to say?"

"Well," said Aziraphale. "I told her about my um-- limitation, and she says that she knows a man who would probably be willing to let me borrow his body."

"Go on."

"This man, well, he has recently become a caretaker for his sister on nights and weekends, but she goes to a day program, and he's looking to earn money, um, in a way that still leaves him free time to run errands and such. Well, anyway, his schedule would work for us, and he is a bit of an odd fellow, not likely to be too intimidated by, well, us, and Madame Tracy will arrange an introduction next week if it is agreeable."

"So," said Crowley, "To be clear, my angel is proposing that we hire a..."

"A sex worker. Yes."

"And he knows that we are immensely powerful supernatural beings? Who want to possess his body?", said Crowley.

"Well, no," Aziraphale stood up and started pacing, very slowly. He punctuated each sentence with calming motions that he made with his hands. "But Madam Tracy will explain all that to him. And we can be very careful not to frighten him. It could be a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"No, Angel. No it can't be. Its exploitative. I don't enter into exploitative arrangements anymore. That part of my life is done."

"But Crowley, some of your human friends have been sex workers. You yourself have engaged in the trade more than a few times. Why is hiring this man, and paying him generously, suddenly exploitative?" 

"Possession, Aziraphale. Possession of a human by us is exploitative."

"But Madam Tracy suggested it! Surely she, of all people, is in a position of moral authority in this matter. She has only fond memories of the time that we shared."

"Angel," said Crowley, "Madam Tracy will never say 'No' to you." He bit his lip and shook his head. "You have no idea, do you? Touching your soul is... addictive. And you are so naive about how powerful we are compared to them. You possessing her once changed her entire life, and you can't even see it! Taking some human's body to save the world is one thing, but taking their body to have a shag is just not something I'm comfortable with. I won't do it. I won't have you do it." 

"Well then," said Aziraphale. He was yelling now. "What would you have me do? You are obviously unhappy with our sex life. I tried to find a solution. At least my solution doesn't put our lives at risk!"

"I'm not unhappy with our sex life. I'm--"

"You were unhappy enough to risk your life last night. I'm not supposed to take that seriously?"

"Just listen to me for a minute," said Crowley. "I'm not a human. I don't need sex. I need you. And I'm happy with what we have together. So lets just enjoy what we have. Okay?"

"Obviously it isn't okay," said Aziraphale. "Obviously I'm not enough for you as I am." His lips trembled. "I've given you my body, my soul, everything. And you want more. I don't know what to do." He covered his face with his hands again and sank into his chair. 

"Aziraphale, this is the opposite of what I wanted. I didn't want to hurt you. I never wanted you to feel this way. I am so sorry that I went behind your back. I was trying to spare you from feeling like this. I thought I could fix this without you having to be involved."

"Fix what? Fix me? I'm not broken Crowley. I am an angel. That's what I am. We aren't sexual. That's just a fact. A fact you don't seem to be able to live with."

"If that was the actual fact, I could live with it. I can live with you, and love you, without your body being sexual. But what I can't live with is sharing you with heaven. I fought to get you away from them, and I didn't... I don't want to leave a single piece of you behind." said Crowley.

"But I'm all yours. I turned in my official resignation at the air force base. There's no going back."

"They still have a piece of you," said Crowley. "I can see it. I can tell. I can see it in the way you still look over your shoulder every time you do the smallest miracle. The way you still wear that signet ring."

"But I had the ring made myself."

Crowley shook his head very slowly. "You still jump every time someone comes into the shop. You're waiting for them to come through that door and drag you back. And part of you thinks you deserve it."

"That's ridiculous!"

"They still have you on their leash. You still believe almost everything they told you. But they've lied again and again. Angels can't do curses. A lie. Angels can't do possessions. A lie. Demons can't love. Lies. All lies. This is another lie. Thousands of years ago, they fed you a rubbish line about angels not being able to have sex, so you wouldn't notice that they had taken it from you. " Crowley spread his hands. "Aziraphale. They took it to make you easier to control. And they still have that piece of you locked up. They have a piece of MY angel, and I want it back." 

Aziraphale was shaking and red faced. With trembling fingers, he took off the signet ring that he had not taken off for six hundred years, and he threw it to the floor. 

"Satisfied?", said Aziraphale. He stood up, turned around, and tore the medal that Gabriel had awarded him off of the wall, and threw it to the floor as well. He tore his pocket watch off of its angel fob and threw the fob onto the ground. He unthreaded his harp cufflinks, and pitched them into the pile. "There. Do you want to melt them all in hellfire? If I let you do that, would that suffice to prove to you that I'm yours?"

"It would be a step," said Crowley. He instantly regretted saying it. But it was too late. Aziraphale turned on his heel, stormed upstairs through the stacks and then slammed every single door on the way to the bedroom.

Crowley had many hours to reflect. In his six thousand year career, he had deceived every duke of hell and countless humans. He'd almost never had a deception fail. With this deception, he had followed all of his time-tested rules, and he'd failed completely. Every single thing that he hadn't wanted to talk to Aziraphale about had come out, and in the most spectacularly awful way. 

There was something Crowley had failed to take into consideration. Something unprecedented. He sat on the sofa and he thought and thought, until, for the first time in over a thousand years, Crowley added a new guideline to his rubric for how to carry out deceptions: Don't lie to people that you love. 

It was hours before Aziraphale stopped crying, and it wasn't until morning when he finally opened the bedroom door. Crowley was curled up in the hall, lying in front of the door with a pillow clutched in his arms and a blanket over his head. When the door opened, he rolled onto his back, landing his face in a sunbeam. He squinted up at Aziraphale and waited for the angel to speak. 

"You're right about some of it," said Aziraphale. "I don't like it, but you are right."

"I'm sorry," said Crowley. He rolled to his knees in front of Aziraphale. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have lied. I wanted to protect you. I thought it would break your heart again to see what monsters they are. And, if, I couldn't figure out any way to solve it... I thought maybe you would be happier not seeing..."

"I see it," said Aziraphale. "I don't know what to do about it, but I see it."

"I don't know what to do either, Angel," said Crowley. He looked up. He rested his chin on the angel's thighs and reached his hands up to touch his sides. "But I won't try to do anything without you again. I promise."

Aziraphale reached down and put his fingers underneath Crowley's uplifted chin. 

"You can't lie to me again. I can't be second guessing everything that you say to me." The angel shook his head sadly. "I can handle disagreeing. I won't leave you over an argument. I love you too much to do that... but..." Aziraphale swallowed. "But I can't be with you if you are going to lie to me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Loud and clear."

"Good." Aziraphale gave a curt nod and dropped his hand away from Crowley's face. He turned his head and half-pretended to be looking out a window. "I'm sure that I'll eventually feel ready to forgive you, but I think it's best if you steer clear of me for a while."

"Right," said Crowley. "I'll take myself out for the day." He picked his pillow and blanket up off the floor and rolled to his feet. "But I'll keep in touch every hour or so by text." He paused. "If that's okay?" 

"Fine."

Crowley kept his eyes on the floor. He walked away in silence. When he reached the end of the hall, Aziraphale spoke again. 

"Crowley," said Aziraphale. "I'd very much appreciate it if, while you were out, you were to put some thought into figuring out what we should do with my old signet ring."


	13. Meeting the Artisan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale head to an out of the way town in Scotland to have their wedding rings made by a human. The human's family and friends are affected by the arrival of immortals.

Jackie untwisted the phone cord before she hung up. She'd paced the length of the workshop a hundred times during the phone call with her customer, and she'd twisted the cord up quite a bit. She walked back over to her bench, where her first sketches were, and she wrote a few more notes with a shaking hand while the thoughts were fresh in her mind. She sat heavily down in a disastrously old chair whose innards were spilling out, and stared at the wall for a half-hour. Then she walked into the next room and the next and the next until she found the loves of her life. They were sitting at the dining room table. Pamela was reading. Robert was on the computer, editing some images for a client. 

"Family meeting," said Jackie. She sat down at the table, steepled her fingers, and tried to imagine how to explain the people that would be coming to the workshop next month and why she had to take the commission. Pamela closed the book and set it aside. Robert took a long look at her face and closed his computer and put it on another table. He got up and grabbed Jackie's favorite mug. 

"I just had a phone call," Jackie began. "From a very old friend. He wants me to make a pair of wedding bands." She paused and accepted the fresh cup of herbal tea that Robert was putting into her hands. How to explain this next bit. 

"This friend," Jackie said, "This friend isn't a human person. He is.... I'm not sure what he is exactly... he's very very old... I've known him almost my whole life and he's never aged a day. I've never told either of you about him. I'm going to tell you about him now, and you can decide whether you want to be here when he comes to the studio."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Bentley sailed northward up the motorway under clear starry skies. There was no one on the road. The old speedometer had pegged out at 100 miles per hour, and it was impossible to know how fast they were really going. They'd left London at three AM and they planned to arrive just after nine. They'd have to go a bit slower at the end because of the country lanes. 

Aziraphale clasped his hands together on top of the cloth wrapped bundle in his lap. He absentmindedly twirled the signet ring around the smallest finger of his right hand as he stared out the window at the dark landscape flying past him. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Not in our home." 

That had been Pamela's final word. She'd grown up on the legends of the fairy folk, and she wasn't inviting one of them into her home. Jackie's studio was in their home, and so a compromise was reached.

That compromise was why Jackie and Robert and a few of their friends were doing their third run out to the field with the truck. This time they were unloading the kiln, the blow torches and the 3-D printer. They carried them into the four-sided waterproof rental tent. Their friend Jules was up on a ladder hanging some bright lights from the ceiling supports. It paid to have friends in the local theatre. Friends who instinctively understood the stakes of this job. 

"You've got to be able to see what you're doing," said Jules. She had also brought lights on stands and lights for tables. Truthfully, it was overkill, but this was how Jules knew how to help. If Jackie failed at this commission, it would not be for lack of light. Fifteen cables ran under three raised rubber cable organizers and out to a generator. The cables for the kiln and the 3-D printer soon joined them. Jackie went to the front of the truck and pulled out a few heavy canvas bags full of tools. By the time she was done arranging them on the tables, Jules was writing neat little tape-labels under each of a half-dozen dimmer sliders on an ancient lighting board. She nodded at Jackie. "I want to show you your lighting controls before I go." 

Fifteen minutes later, Robert and Jackie watched Jules and her partner drive off over the field toward the road. They surveyed the empty field through the drizzling rain. 

"I think you could use those bushes over there if you need to take a piss. And I can leave you my camp shovel, for, you know, in case." said Robert. 

"Won't be a problem. Human bodily needs never happen while he's around."

"I'm going to pretend that what you just said doesn't terrify me."

"Its going to be worth it. He pays well."

"You never said how much you agreed on."

"Oh sweetie, he doesn't pay with money."

They turned off the generator, got into the truck, and drove down to the restaurant where they were to meet the customer. It was only a fifteen minute drive from the field. 

"Who does a fairy marry anyway?"

"Don't call him that," said Jackie. "We're getting close. Who knows how well he hears."

"What do I call him?"

"Dunno."

Two minutes later, they arrived at the restaurant and parked. There were a lot of cars. The restaurant was quite busy for nine AM on a Thursday morning. Jackie looked around the tiny room and saw Jules and Nicola, and then a couple of their friends, and some of Robert's friends. There were also a few older folks, regulars. Pamela was in the back, and she'd saved them a table. 

Jackie whispered to Robert. "Do they all know?"

"You moved your whole studio to the middle of a pasture. You think our friends wouldn't want to see the person you're doing this for?"

They sat down and ordered breakfast and waited. Pamela wasn't even speaking. She just ate in silence and stared at Jackie as if she was memorizing her face. Their friends at other tables kept sneaking out to the front to smoke cigarettes. Finally, one of Robert's friends walked in from his cigarette break and raised an eyebrow in their general direction and nodded deliberately. A minute later, they heard the slam of one car door and then another. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley surveyed the tiny restaurant and spotted his artist immediately. Her skin had a bit more ink than it had before-- the tattoos now covered her neck and curled around to the sides of her face. Her hairstyle was the same as it had been over a decade before-- long straight hair pulled back into a simple braid. It was completely silver now. It matched the half-dozen silver earrings she had in each ear. Her eyes were happier than ever. It was clear that she'd settled into a deeply contented life. Crowley was glad to see it. 

Jackie stood up and threaded her way through the tables. She reached Crowley and Aziraphale at the same time that the hostess did. Every table at the restaurant went silent at the sight of the strangely dressed men from out of town. 

"Good Morning," said Jackie. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"Nice to see you again, Jackie. Looking forward to working with you. My husband and I are going to have some breakfast, and then we can all drive up your studio." 

"Sounds lovely. I'll wait for you to be done."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Hand poured. Both rings poured the same time. From old jewelry that he would supply. She'd told him that it was doable as long as the design of the bands was simple. He was happy with simple. She sent him to a friend in London to get the sizes verified. Then she'd done a test run of the bands in a white gold, shipped them, and he'd been satisfied with the sizes and the design. So far so good. Jackie had never failed this patron before, and she didn't plan to now. 

Jackie talked to him about what kind of color and hardness he wanted in the finished product. She wasn't terribly surprised that durability was the most important thing he wanted. He was immortal after all.

She printed out six blanks of the two rings with their connecting sprues, and from these she made six identical ceramic molds, which were the first things she brought to her tent-studio. Just in case, she also brought the computer, the 3-D printer, the kiln, every crucible she owned, and all the rest. She wasn't taking any chances. Magic rings might take any number of tries. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Not a single table in the small restaurant was having a natural conversation. Everyone talked to each other, of course, but not about anything that anyone cared about. The pensioners openly watched the suspiciously wealthy Londoners. The younger folks glanced up surreptitiously from their slightly stilted conversations about animal feed and last month's festival. 

Robert and Jackie did an unnecessary room by room review of their plans for winterizing the house while Pamela sat between them and watched the tall thin not-a-man. He wore sunglasses that wrapped around the sides of his eyes. He was drinking coffee, but he didn't eat a thing. Pamela was deeply suspicious that his eyes were unnatural or that he could cast curses with them. She wondered why he didn't eat. A geas, or a curse, or a vow. Or perhaps he ate flesh. He was pretty. Not that that made him less dangerous. His body was slim and muscled. His face was attractive. His clothes were tight and dark and fashionable in some indefinably continental way. He had an artfully rumpled head of auburn hair. He moved with careless grace. You could easily mistake him for human. 

The person who was with him was probably not a human, but Pamela couldn't be sure. His clothing was odd-- it looked like he'd assembled it from the costume room of an old theatre. But otherwise he looked like a middle aged man, the genial sort of man who could easily slip on a fake beard to play Santa Claus. He was plump and bright eyed. He had pale skin, pure white hair, pink lips, and rosy cheeks. A constant smile played about his eyes, which were always upon the not-a-man. 

Pamela watched as the not-a-man stretched out in his chair and twisted his neck around luxuriously. His head rolled around on his shoulders. When he turned his head Pamela saw his temple, on the side of his face that she hadn't seen before. That tattoo. She knew that tattoo. She had often traced her fingers over one just like it. Her stomach fell and her mouth went dry. The not-a-man creature somehow owned Jackie, and had come out of nowhere to claim Jackie's time and services and maybe something more. The not-a-man was suddenly staring right at her across the room. He seemed to smirk at her. Then he went back to his elaborate stretching routine. 


	14. Fifty years with an Immortal Patron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackie, a human, meets a strange patron that she thinks is a distant relative.

The first time Jackie made art for her immortal patron, she'd been seventeen. It was spring of 1969. She was sitting on the grass in St. James Park, sketching. She had skipped school for the day. There hardly seemed to be a point, considering that her final grades were going to be too low for her to attend a fine arts school. She never could string sentences together, and numbers made her dizzy. She had fully intended to bring her maths grade up, but a lot had happened this year, and her mind just went fuzzy any time she tried to do anything hard. Except for art. But even then, she'd upset her teachers and missed a few assignments. Working in her aunt's hair salon was Jackie's inevitable future. But her present, well, that was her own, and she was going to spend it in the park sketching. 

Jackie didn't notice the man standing behind her until he spoke. He was tall and stylish with glasses like John Lennon, except that they were dark. 

"Not too bad," he said of her landscape. He crouched down and inspected it carefully. "You have a decent eye."

Jackie had showed him all the sketches in her notebook. He was interested in the portraits. 

"Good likeness, that is," he said of a sketch of her mother.

"How would you know?"

"Do you do commissions?"

"Sure," said Jackie. She did commissions as of this very moment.

"Would you be willing to sit where I tell you and draw a particular person for me?"

"Easy," said Jackie. 

"Not so easy," he replied. "He won't hold still for you. And he can't know you're drawing him."

"How much are you going to pay me?"

"15 pounds. But you don't give me the picture today. You meet me right here at the same time tomorrow."

15 pounds was a lot of money to Jackie back then. Her shoes were falling apart, and her bathing suit was so threadbare it was indecent. And she'd need to buy some art supplies for summer. Skipping a second day of school hardly seemed to matter compared to 15 pounds. She shook the man's hand and followed him to the spot he selected. 

"He'll be sitting on that bench with me. I'll distract him so he doesn't notice you. I'll pay you more if you catch his smile." 

The man she was supposed to draw was an old white haired man with a bowtie. He had pink lips and pink cheeks and he smiled quite a bit. It was a quiet smile, lips together, but then his eyes would crinkle for just an instant. Jackie caught the crinkle. It was the best portrait she'd done in months. She was young and bold and she was so excited about how well it had turned out that, when she got home, she took a brush to her portrait and added color to the lips, cheeks, and eyes. 

She met the man at the park the next day and handed it over. 

"It's good," the man said. 

"I almost wanted to keep it," Jackie said.

"You should go to art school," he said. Then he took the drawing and walked away without paying. 

Her acceptance letter from Chelsea College of Arts arrived the next morning. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The strange man who had gotten her into school had to be one of her mother's relatives. Jackie was sure of it. Her mother had been estranged from her family, but judging by the stories, they'd have been rich enough to pull strings to get her into art college. They'd hated Jackie's dad, and Jackie couldn't blame them for that. But now that Jackie's mom was dead and Jackie had moved in with her dad's sister, those long lost relatives must have decided to swoop in. Maybe they had hung her drawing up on the wall of her mother's old bedroom. The old man she sketched might be one of her uncles. She kept the partial sketches she'd made that day and studied them carefully, trying to find traces of similarity between the two men and her own lips and jaw and ears. 

Art school was hard. It was hard to create such volumes of work, and do it precisely the way that her teachers wanted. Jackie was a born rebel, and she almost failed nearly every semester. It was stressful to know that, somewhere, her rich relatives were probably being informed of her crap grades and judging her for it. Jackie was starting to understand why her mother had wanted to escape the pressure. But she got through school and she got her diploma, and her aunt and her cousin were there to celebrate the day with her. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The second time Jackie met her patron was just after she graduated. She'd been expecting to see him at the graduation itself, and she'd been sure he was there. She'd caught a glimpse of a man dressed in black with auburn hair, but he'd turned around to quickly for her to wave to him. He was probably avoiding her aunt. After all, Aunt Pat was the sister of the man that his side of her family hated so much. How were they to know that, underneath her brashness, she was really quite generous? There was nothing wrong with being working class. Jackie would explain everything when she met her patron/cousin again. 

And then there he was, not two weeks after the graduation ceremony, waiting outside her door as she was heading out to do some shopping. 

"Hey," he said. "Wanted to ask you something. Wondered if your artistic hands might do me a little favor."

"Sure," she said. 

They walked to a little breakfast place with linoleum topped tables. A waitress brought him a coffee and took Jackie's order. She just got a coffee. The waitress didn't seem to mind. 

The man pulled a giant cardboard tube off of the floor and pulled out a stack of rolled drawings. He commandeered the table next to them and laid them out. He shuffled through them. 

"See this? I want you to change it. I need you to copy these drawings, but with a few changes, and it all has to be consistent. They all have to say the same thing. They keep changing the scale, and some of the drawings only show part of it. But, you could do it."

"Uh," said Jackie. "This is drafting you're asking me to do. These are drawings of motorways. I don't know anything about this."

"It's just copying. You can do that, right?", said the man.

"I guess I could," said Jackie. "I'd need a drafting table and the right kind of paper."

"I help you get you that stuff, you make the changes I need, fair?"

"Well, this could take me weeks and, uh, my aunt wants me to get a job. I need to help her with rent." 

"I'll pay you every week till it's done. Plus an advance so you can buy your drafting table."

"Are you going to tell me your name?", asked Jackie "I mean, if we're going to be working together."

"Let's just say that I'm a patron of the arts and leave it at that."

It took twelve weeks of round the clock effort. Jackie met with her patron every Friday and he scrutinized the drawings and made her redo some of them, but he paid her 200 pounds each time they met, and, in the end, he seemed very happy. 

On their last day, Jackie found herself feeling rather glum. She still didn't know anything about her patron, and she didn't want him to just disappear again. He never took off his sunglasses. He refused to answer any questions about her mother's family. He wouldn't even confirm that he was her relative. It was maddening. She was grateful to him for giving her a first job, of course, and, incidentally, proving to her aunt the value of an arts degree. But she wanted more. She wanted the connection that he wouldn't give her. 

In the end, he simply took the drawings and walked away. Jackie went back to the little restaurant every Friday for a month, but he never returned. She sat alone at her table and sketched what she remembered of him: the stylish mop of auburn hair, the dark glasses, the strange tattoo of the snake that was on his temple. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie wouldn't see 200 pounds a week again for a very very long time. It wasn't easy to get a job as a young artist with crap grades in school and no one to recommend her. She ended up working part time in her aunt's beauty salon to makes ends meet. 

Aunt Pat was a two pack-a-day smoker. She had a cigarette break between each client. Even her bathroom had an ash tray. It wasn't terribly surprising when she starting coughing up blood. Everyone knew what was coming. Cousin Brenda had to take on her mother's clients in addition to taking care of her mother, and so Jackie ended up back at the salon full time to help out. Jackie had never gotten along well with Brenda, but between the stress of watching Aunt Pat suffer, and having to give up her career to pitch in, Jackie was constantly fighting with Brenda. Two weeks after the funeral, Brenda asked Jackie to stay and work full-time to keep the salon going, and they had an enormous fight. Jackie quit, moved out of Aunt Pat's house, and moved in with her boyfriend. 

A month later, she was nursing two bruised wrists and sleeping on a borrowed couch in a friend's basement. She was glad the wrists weren't broken, but she couldn't work for three days, and she spent the time meditating on what it meant to have family, now that she seemed to have none. Once her wrists felt better, she started sketching out the very first version of the tattoo. It would honor the few people who actually had been family to her. Two of them were dead, and the one that was living didn't seem to want to come around very often. When she was done with the sketch, she brought it around to several tattoo parlors to get estimates. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was six years later when Jackie saw her patron again. She was at work. The patron sauntered right into the tattoo parlor on a Saturday night, walked right to the front of the line of half-drunk customers, leaned over the counter and caught Jackie's eye. 

"I need business cards," he'd said. "And signs."

Tiny, who was manning the counter, started shouting at him. 

"Do we look like a bloody stationary shop, you empty-headed pansy? Get the fuck out of here. I've got customers." 

Jackie turned off her needle. She walked up to the counter. She ignored the glare from Tiny. Between Tiny and her mysterious patron, she knew who she cared to please more. 

"Cousin!", she said. "You should have told me you were in town. I can meet you at 4 AM at the diner on the corner. I'd be happy to help you."

Later, in the diner, Jackie's patron was smirking at her around his coffee mug.

"Cousin?", he said, "Really?"

"Well, if you are actually my uncle, you should have just told me. Don't worry. I'm not going to try to crash the next family gathering. I know the others don't want me. I just like the feeling of having family, you know."

He suddenly looked very somber. 

"So," said Jackie, "How bout this time, before we talk business, you actually tell me a little about them?" 

"Nah, lets not ruin a perfectly good evening." 

He pulled out a napkin and a pencil and started sketching his ideas.

A week later, he let her into a printing shop in the middle of the night, and, lucky for him, she was actually able to figure out how to use the equipment. She was waiting for the business cards to finish printing when she decided it was time to talk.

"So," she asked, as she turned the first finished business card over in her hand, "Is this Peters family a crime family?"

"That's not actually my name," he said. Then he changed the topic.

"Look," he said. "I don't like those guys you work for. They don't respect you, they give you only the crap work to do, and the whole place smells like a cigarette factory."

"So what? You should talk. You've got me breaking and entering to make fake stationary and stuff for your fake business."

"Let me introduce you to someone I know," he said. "They'll pay you about the same. The work is nicer. And you don't have to breathe in all that cancer air."

"What does it matter? I smoke."

"You shouldn't," he said.

"You sure like to tell me what to do. Only my family gets to tell me what to do."

Jackie's patron was silent. 

"It's okay," said Jackie. "I know you can't tell me about them. It still means a lot to me that you look out for me. Even if you only visit with me when you need something."

Jackie's patron had a complicated look on his face. 

"I need to show you something," Jackie said.

She turned around, lifted up her shirt in the back, and showed him the black and grey piece on her shoulder blades. Her own pencil sketches of the faces of her mother and her Aunt Pat, with grey wings under them, and their names and the dates of their deaths written on a ribbon that stretched between the two pictures and then wound down the center of her back. The looping shape of the narrow part of the ribbon was exactly the same shape as her patron's tattoo.

"See?", said Jackie. "I know who my family is." 

The new job that her patron got her was as an illustrator and typesetter at a very small publishing company. It was run by a bunch of radical feminists and half of the titles that they put out were about women's sexual health. The other books were about organic farming, herbal remedies, jam making, and political revolution. 

Working in the publishing company was quite an education, and Jackie put her new knowledge to good use. She decided to make a few lifestyle changes. Quitting smoking was one of them. For some reason, perhaps because of the new vegetarian diet, or maybe the new girlfriend, quitting turned out to be surprisingly easy for Jackie. She didn't have a single withdrawal symptom. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie's patron didn't come back for over two decades. Then he just showed up one day, at the jewelry making shop where she worked, and invited her out to lunch.

She was 55 years old at the time. When she first saw him, for a half instant she thought she must be looking at the son of her patron. But her eye for detail was too good for her mind to deceive itself for long. And she'd long suspected. She took him to her favorite restaurant, watched him order his normal black coffee, and studied him with a great deal more perceptiveness than her twenty-something self had had. This time Jackie realized that every time she tried to sneak a look behind his sunglasses, her eyes slid away and her mind clouded. 

"So," she said. "What do you need?"

"ID badges, some official looking paperwork, schematics, work site posters, few other little things." 

"Ever going to tell me what you are?"

"Nah, just as well that I don't."

She called in sick to work for the rest of the week so that she could do the job. She called in a favor to get access to a print shop after hours. Her patron liked to stop by every evening to see her progress. They talked some.

"I like your new sleeves," he said.

"New?," she teased, "Finished these twelve years ago. You haven't come by in a while." But she gave him a tour of all her ink and told him what each piece meant to her. When she showed him her back, he went silent again. The air got thick with what she could only guess was an immortal being's version of guilt. 

She dropped her shirt and turned around.

"It's okay," she told him. "Check out these teeth. All real. I've not had a cavity in twenty years. Haven't caught a single cold in all the time since I've seen you last. Not even a sniffle. I like to tell people it's the echinacea tea I have with breakfast." 

His expression, what she could see of it, still seemed somber. 

"I'm doing great," she told him. "I've got interesting work, lots of independence, boss barely checks up on me. What more could a person want?"

"You don't have a family," he said.

"True, but men are awful and women are crazy, so that doesn't leave much of a dating pool does it?"

"It isn't good to be alone," he said. Then he was silent for a long time. 

She told him that she needed the glasses off for the ID picture. He could close his eyes if he needed. She'd give his image whatever color eyes he wanted. But, in the end, he trusted her to see them. They were golden and slitted like a cat's eyes. She said nothing about them. She just edited the picture to make them brown and round, and then destroyed the original file. 

Jackie did the job he wanted and let him walk away. She never found out what kind of creature her patron was. But whatever he was, Jackie had found favor with him. A few months later, a couple wanted to have a very old engagement ring recast. They had a lot of very specific requirements and so Jackie's boss sent them back to talk to her directly. The conversation ran very long, wandering from rings to family to art and love. After the shop closed for the night, they ended up going out to dinner, and then back to the couple's flat. 


	15. Melded into one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old things are melted down. Rings are made. Immortals morn and celebrate and a human bears witness.

Jackie's patron and his husband looked like they were finally finishing breakfast, so Jackie and Robert and Pamela finished theirs and paid and went out front to wait. It was easy to tell which was the client's car. It was an antique car in perfect condition. Robert whistled in admiration. Pamela just grabbed Jackie's hand tightly. 

"Kiss for luck!", said Robert. He kissed Jackie and took her other hand. 

Pamela kissed Jackie as well, on the forehead, on both cheeks and on the lips. She looked into her eyes if she was trying to pour her own life into her. "Come back to us," she said. "Come back to us whole." 

The patron and his husband came out the door of the restaurant. 

"Let's go," said the client. He opened the passenger side of the car for his husband and then walked around to the driver's side and opened that door.

The patron's husband ignored the open car door and came over to the three humans. He was carrying a cloth bundle in one hand, but he extended his other hand to Pamela. 

"My name is Aziraphale," he said. 

Pamela said nothing. She didn't move.

"We will take good care of your wife, I promise." 

"My name is Robert, Jackie's partner, it's nice to meet you." Robert shook Aziraphale's hand. His face relaxed. He nodded and seemed more confident than he had a minute ago. "Jackie will lead you up in the car. Pam and I will follow in the truck. We'll start up the generator for you and wait outside for a bit, just in case there's anything you need that isn't already there. There's no mobile service at all."

The patron, who was already behind the wheel, shut his door, and Aziraphale hopped in and did the same. 

Twenty minutes later, Pamela and Robert were sitting in the truck at the edge of the pasture watching the flaps close on the tent. They sat in the truck and stared at the walls of the tent, which were white and featureless. 

"The generator is supposed to have a nine hour run time, but I'm thinking I'll come back and refill it in six," said Robert. "I've left some petrol next to it for just in case I can't make it in time. The thing I'm really worried about is the kiln. It draws a lot of power. I should have reminded Jackie about turning lights off if she's going to use the kiln."

"That's the thing you're worried about? The fucking bloody kiln?", said Pamela. She silenced herself when the plump, white haired, probably-not-a-man emerged from the tent. He waved at them and then slowly walked around the tent, speaking inaudibly and making precise motions with his hands. When he got all the way back around to the front, he waved again and slipped back inside. 

Pamela and Robert sat in thick silence and watched the tent. A few minutes later, both of the clients came out of the tent together. They walked around it together, pausing several times to touch its walls or make small gestures. Then they went back inside. A minute later, Jackie stuck her head out, gave a thumbs up, and then zipped the flap closed. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie had recognized the white haired man as soon as she saw him. But she had had to pretend that she was meeting him for the first time. The immortal patron's immortal husband had introduced himself in the parking lot, but Jackie hadn't quite understood the name. Here in the studio, he was happy to pronounce his name three times until Jackie got it right. Aziraphale was very cheerful and appreciative as he inspected the equipment. He had something charming to say about everything. He was extremely impressed by the resin 3-D printer. 

"How clever!", he exclaimed. "And how does the machine know what shape you want it to make?" 

Jackie obligingly woke up the computer and started up the CAD program while Aziraphale leaned over to watch. The patron cleared his throat, and Aziraphale turned away reluctantly. 

"I suppose we really should get started," said Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sat on a stool next to an empty table. He put the cloth bundle into his lap and held it with both hands. Jackie's immortal patron stood behind him with one hand on Aziraphale's lower back. 

"Right," said the patron. "We have some old jewelry that we want to melt down to make the rings. And some other things that we just want to destroy permanently." 

Aziraphale set the bundle in the middle of the table and untied and unwound a fabric strip from around the top of it. He unfolded the cloth and laid it flat. In the center, piled like a child's acorn collection, were several dozen pieces of antique gold and silver jewelry and at least a few ancient artifacts. 

Jackie let out an involuntary whistle. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. 

"Let's lay these out so we can get a better look at them," she said. She laid a large velvet covered tray on the table next to Aziraphale and positioned her magnifying lamp. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"We absolutely have to include the fibula, you wore it at our first dinner." 

Jackie looked from Aziraphale to her patron. Her patron nodded. They both agreed then. She held out her hand for it. It was a cloak pin in the shape of a snake. 

"Red gold?" said Jackie.

"Gold copper mix is what I was told," said her patron. "It held up well. 2000 years. Big improvement over bronze. That stuff was crap. Had to polish it all the time or it turned green."

"You 'hate' polishing." said Aziraphale. "And yet you wore silver all the time."

"It's a matter of having standards, Angel," The patron winked at Jackie. She couldn't see the wink, but she saw the lift of his cheek and the crinkle at his temple. 

They went through all the pieces like that. Half-stories and winks and misty eyes and the clear implication that they, whatever they were, were thousands of years old. Jackie wanted to ask them why, after all these years, they were finally getting wedding rings. Why did they pick now? Why did they pick her? 

The three of them selected pieces by material ("I can't use the bronze" she'd told them, "because it has tin and tin will soften the gold") and by sentimental value. The items with greatest sentimental value were the ones they wanted to include in the rings. After two hours they had three piles. One to turn into the rings, one to keep and one to destroy.

Aziraphale was holding a set of gold cuff-links. The faces had a mother of pearl background with thin gold-work forming the shapes of harps over the mother of pearl. Jackie guessed them to be Victorian era. 

"I still love these, as painful as it all was," Aziraphale said. He turned and looked up over his shoulder. "You held onto them for so much longer than I've even had them. They were your gift to me. So I suppose it should be your choice."

"Hmph," said the patron. 

"Crowley, take those wretched glasses off and speak to me properly. Do we keep them, or use them for the rings?"

The patron, whose name Jackie now knew after 50 years, took off his sunglasses and held out his hand for Aziraphale to put the cufflinks into. Jackie had seen those eyes once before, so she wasn't startled by their shape. She noticed how cautious and vulnerable they looked. Her patron had always been so brash and casual. Crowley looked at the cufflinks with great tender sadness and closed his hand around them and opened it again. He couldn't seem to make a decision.

"Let me be the tiebreaker," said Jackie. "It would be time consuming to separate the mother of pearl from the gold, and we have lots of gold for the rings already." 

Crowley closed his fist around the cufflinks. A few minutes later, he slipped them into his front pocket. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley insisted on removing the unwanted items from the table first. Aziraphale wrapped all the items to kept back up in his cloth. That left over a dozen items to be destroyed. Jackie kicked a giant crucible out from under a table. It was the size of a small trash bin, but its black graphite walls were an inch an a half thick. 

Jackie sat on a stool, trying to keep her expression cheerful as her client and his husband dropped ancient artifacts into the dark crucible as if they were broken tchotchkes. They dropped the last piece, a large gold medallion, into the crucible, and then Aziraphale stood over the graphite bin with his hands folded together and a very pensive look on his face. He wrung his hands around each other, nodded to himself, and then the pinky ring that he'd been wearing was suddenly in his palm. He held it for a minute, and then Crowley put a hand on his shoulder, and he sighed and dropped it into the crucible. It clinked against metal. Then there was silence.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

In Jackie's tray were the eight items selected for the making of the wedding rings: the 2000 year old cloak pin, a battered silver ring with a faded snake head that was still barely visible, a silver coin with some Latin words on it, a pair of simple gold earrings, a gold ring with an enormous sapphire surrounded by a setting of diamonds, a long silver pin, a gold bracelet, and three inches of gold chain. 

"This is a lot more metal than we need," said Jackie. "We could get away with using just a few of them."

"No," said Aziraphale "At least some part of all of them has to go into the rings."

"Okay," said Jackie. "But I'm going to have to play around with the ratios to get a good alloy. I might be able to just cut a bit out of some of the pieces."

"Melt them completely." Crowley was adamant. 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "The sacrifice is important." 

Jackie set out a row of crucibles, each of them a little white bowl smaller than her hand with a tiny spout on the side. She picked up each item and set each into its own crucible. Except for the ring with the sapphire. That one she put into a wooden box and dismembered with pliers and clippers, until the stones were free. She put the remains of the ring, and all the little metal scraps, into the crucible, and set the box of precious stones on a table behind her. 

Jackie had a pretty good idea that she was going to aim for a pink gold. Gold and copper and silver. It would be hard enough to last for many centuries. There would be some traces of other metals in the alloy, from all the eight pieces she had to include, but she could make a large portion of the mix consist of that really nice 2000 year old red-gold cloak pin that she was about to liquefy. But she didn't have much of that cloak pin, so she'd have to really think her experiments through carefully. 

In front of each crucible, Jackie put a piece of paper. She picked up each bit of jewelry, weighed it in her hand, squeezed it with pliers, and then wrote down her guess of the composition. Then she went back to the beginning of the row of crucibles, picked up her blow torch, lit it, and melted the first item, the 600 year old silver coin. 

As Jackie worked her way down the row of crucibles, the immortals were very still and silent. Aziraphale sat on a stool and leaned on Crowley. They wrapped their arms around each other like humans in mourning. When Jackie turned off her blow torch and set it aside, Crowley whispered into Aziraphale's ear. Aziraphale nodded and they unwrapped themselves from each other. 

Crowley silently pulled the Victorian harp cufflinks out of his pocket and set them into the tray at the end of the row of crucibles. Jackie didn't dare to look up at him. She picked up her pliers and silently pried the golden strings off of the first harp. She tore at the setting until she could free the mother of pearl underneath. Then she ripped out the other three perfect little harps leaving the faces of the cuff links ragged and torn up. She swept the cracked sheets of mother of pearl and the little bits of gold that clung to them into the box that contained the sapphire and the diamonds. She put the cuff links into a crucible and melted them into a tiny golden puddle. 

The next hours were a blur of heating and pouring and alloying metals. She had to keep careful notes as she went to make sure that she included all nine of the items in the final alloy. She cooled and heated and tested and adjusted, all the while keeping the best bit, the ancient red-gold, in reserve. When she poured the ancient red-gold onto her charcoal block, and then added the 10 karat white pink mixture, she felt faint. But the slug she got out of that mixture was very close. A half dozen tiny additions later and she had it, a lump of pink gold the size of a ping pong ball. She cooled it in water and then held it out to her patron. 

He took it in both hands as if it were an egg. His immortal husband lay a hand on top of it. 

"This is it," said Aziraphale "Our whole life together condensed into one little ball."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was setting and the autumn briskness was turning to chilliness. Pamela was sitting in the front seat of the car, watching the tent. As the air around it turned grey and misty, it glowed whiter and whiter, like an unnatural jellyfish floating on the grey field. Somewhere in that tent, or maybe in a little pocket universe inside that tent, Jackie was making a magical object for immortal creatures. 

In ten hours, Pamela had eaten two sandwiches, drunk countless cups of coffee, and pissed three times: twice in the field and once in a nearby restaurant. Jackie had been in the tent, working, for ten hours, without food or water. How much time had passed for her in there? Would they push her beyond her physical limits with their magic glamours and then leave her body ruined when they were done with her? There was no way to know, and there was no way for Jackie to escape. Jackie had let that creature put its mark on her all those decades ago, and now she was trapped. And Pamela couldn't save her. All she could do was keep vigil. Pamela watched the soft edges of the glowing tent fade into the fog and darkness. 

There was a noise. Pamela realized that it was Robert, tapping on the glass of the car window. She opened the door. 

"You're freezing," Robert said. "You fell asleep. You need to come home."

"No."

"We have to trust Jackie. We have to trust her choices. She said she will be fine, and we have to believe it. And I'm not letting you get hypothermia. I'm taking you home."

"I'm not letting her die alone."

"You can't reach her. You can't see her. I tried to walk close to the tent and it repelled me. There's nothing we can do. We need sleep and we need to go home to our own bed."

Robert dragged Pamela home. They tried to sleep, and failing that, they made love as best they could through Pamela's tears. Pamela passed out after that, and Robert drifted in and out of sleep as he waited for his alarm to go off to tell him to refill the petrol again.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie had the first ceramic mold holding in the oven. The crucible was on the table. She was waiting. The immortal clients were still holding the ball of gold. They stood, forehead to forehead, with Crowley holding the ball in two hands and Aziraphale with his hands on top. 

When they finally looked up, she held the crucible out to them, and Aziraphale placed the ball inside. Jackie picked up her tongs and pulled the ceramic mold out of the oven and set it down in front of her clients. She picked up her blow torch and lit it up and melted the pink metal. But when she reached for her tongs again, she saw that Crowley already had them. 

"Do you know how to --"

"I've been watching," he replied, and he picked up the crucible, with its precious tablespoon of liquid, with the tongs. He lifted it to the edge of the ceramic mold. Then, sticking his tongue out with concentration, he tilted the crucible and poured the gleaming fire liquid into the mold. 

What happened next startled Jackie so much that she nearly screamed. Aziraphale put his hand right on top of the one thousand degree ceramic mold, right on top of the two thousand degree liquid metal that was rounded over the top of the hot mold. His eyes were drawn closed with what surely must be pain, but there was no smell of burning flesh. He held his hand on the liquid gold and spoke words in a language that Jackie had never heard. A moment later, Crowley put his hand on top of Aziraphale's, pressing it down flat onto the top of the ceramic mold, and he added his own voice, saying different words, equally incomprehensible. 

They stayed like that for the hours that it took the ceramic to cool. They never stopped speaking. The words were repetitive and they lulled Jackie into a trance. She sat on the floor, wrapped up in a wool blanket that someone had left for her, leaning against the side of a trestle table, never quite dozing, never quite awake. 

Each of them repeated a different series of sentences. Their words were not synchronized, but each kept his own inexorable rhythm and their words would come together in synchrony for a moment every once in a great while, where they would say three or four words that were exactly the same at exactly the same moment, and then their words would fly apart again. 

Jackie listened to the endlessness of the sound. She floated on the sound of Aziraphale's voice for a while and then on Crowley's. Even without her knowing their meaning, the sounds sank into Jackie's brain and insinuated themselves into her memories of the day that she committed to her love for Pamela and Robert. She felt the meaning of the sounds thrumming in her chest: Devotion, Loyalty, Eternity, Willingness, Sacrifice, Protectiveness, Generosity, Growth, Joy, Hopefulness. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the ring making process was normal enough. After they peeled their miraculously unharmed hands off, Jackie shattered the ceramic mold and the joined rings inside were perfect. She separated them from each other and cleaned them off. She clipped off the sprues, and filed off the nubs of them. She polished and buffed the rings. Her hands moved automatically, her mind perfectly clear and her fingers nimble. It was only when she handed them over that she realized the contact high she had had from touching them. Handing them over felt like landing on the earth. 

She handed them both to Crowley. He slipped them into his pocket. His partner looked at him with confusion. Crowley gestured at the black crucible on the floor. The one full of unwanted items. Aziraphale's lips tightened and he nodded. Then he spoke to Jackie. 

"Can you show me how to use one of those torches? I need to destroy these myself."

She gave him a calf length leather apron. She demonstrated how to use the blow torch. He flitted his hands and asked anxious questions. When she placed the torch in his hands, he was trembling like a human. His immortal partner stood behind him and put a hand in the center of his back while he aimed the nozzle and lit the flame. Aziraphale poured the heat into the crucible at his feet. The pile of ancient metals began to sink as Byzantine bronze and Victorian gold and all the rest flowed together into a fire-bright liquid at the bottom of the black crucible. 

When it was done, Jackie turned off the blow torch and took it away. Crowley untied the apron from the back. The thick leather fell to the ground with a big heavy thump. Aziraphale turned and fell into his partner's arms. Watching him reminded Jackie of how she'd collapsed into her aunt's arms right after she'd thrown the first handful of dirt onto her mother's coffin. Jackie sat down on a low stool near the edge of the tent and stared at the floor. The cries that reached her ears sounded very much like a human's. She'd been to the funeral of a teenager, once, and the father had cried like that, gulping breaths and howls and spasmodic wails that would ease off into near silence and then start up again, on and on. 

Eventually, the sounds stopped. A while later, there was whispering, and then, after a lot more whispering and other quiet sounds, Aziraphale cleared his throat and spoke to Jackie.

"Excuse me," he said, gesturing at the black crucible on the ground. "Is there any way to get this metal to cool down any faster?"

"Well," said Jackie, "If we had a lot of water, it might be possible to quench it. But that crucible is heavy and the metal is hot. I don't really have the tools to get it out safely yet. We have to wait." 

"A lot of water," said Aziraphale. He looked at his partner and smiled mischievously. "How does the Atlantic Ocean sound?"

"Perfect," Crowley replied.

Crowley took the rings out of his pocket, held them in his hand and nodded to Aziraphale. Aziraphale waved his hand in a great circle that took in the whole tent, then took one of the rings from Crowley. He took his immortal partner's hand in his own, and slid the ring onto the ring finger of his left hand. Then Crowley did the same for Aziraphale. They kissed, like humans, and wrapped their arms around each other. 

When Jackie turned away from them, to give them privacy, she realized that every nugget, ingot, shaving, and mote of dust from the metal that they had used tonight had entirely vanished. The great black crucible on the floor was entirely empty. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first rays of pink light were bending over the horizon when Robert and Pamela arrived with petrol to fill the generator again. They pulled up to the field in their truck, looked at the still lit tent, and then got out of the truck and hauled the heavy containers out of the truck bed and across the field. The generator still had half a tank of fuel. They topped it off.

"Well, I guess she didn't have to use the kiln," said Robert. 

"Hmph," said Pam. Was that good? Was it bad? There was no way to know. 

They walked back to the truck. 

"We should get breakfast," said Robert. 

The sound of the zipper cut through the misty grey air. They looked at the tent. The bottom of the flaps were separating, and where they separated, they saw the beat-up, scorched, brown boots of the woman that they loved. They grasped each other's hands, but they didn't dare move or speak. 

The boots moved behind the tent flap and a familiar hand pulled it back to make a triangular exit. The mysterious immortal client and his paramour emerged, holding hands. The two man-like creatures crossed the misty field towards them until they stood right in front of the humans. As they approached through the grey air, Robert and Pamela could see that the client had slitted yellow eyes, like a reptile or a cat. Robert felt Pamela's hand clench his hand painfully. She stood, frozen, in that position. 

The client tilted his head and narrowed his reptile eyes. 

"Your Jackie is an exceptional person," he said. "She did beautiful work for us."

He tilted his head the other way. 

"I've always respected true love. It's rare. It lets you do things that would be impossible otherwise." He raised his hands, his left and the hand that was holding his husband's left hand. "These could only be made by someone who knows love. So some of our thanks needs to be to you two." He lowered his hands. He nodded again, very slowly. Then he held up his left hand so that it faced backward toward the tent, and he pulled at the air, drawing his arm down in front and squeezing his hand shut as if he had sucked something back into his palm. A moment later, his husband did the same. 

"There," said Aziraphale. "You can go see your wife now." 

Then he and his husband leaned against each other, squeezed each other's hands, and walked off toward their car. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leander must have been conceived on that lonely night when Jackie was with the fairies. Pamela often thought about how afraid she'd been that night, how Robert had managed to wrest an orgasm out of her in between her racking sobs, how she'd lain on her side, clinging to his arm and covering it with tears and snot while he enveloped her and fucked her in his gentle and steady way. And somehow, from her night of greatest terror, had come her greatest joy. She was 48 years old when she gave birth to Leander. There were many other blessings that came to Pamela's family that year and in the coming years, but they were all made brighter by the presence of a cheerful and sturdy boy with ridiculously exuberant brown curls and dimples just like Jackie's. 


	16. Song of Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale uses poetry to defeat Gabriel

Crowley had retired from working for Hell, but he still ended up having to work. He had happened to look over Aziraphale's shoulder one evening while the angel was filling in his ledger book, and he'd discovered that Aziraphale had never sold of any of the houses he'd lived in over the past 1500 years. He had empty houses in Istanbul, Rome, and Paris. He had a nine bedroom house in Cairo, and he wasn't sure who lived in it, but they sent him 100 pounds a month. He had three properties in London, and the minuscule rents the angel charged his tenants barely covered the taxes. 

"No wonder you keep getting audited, Angel," said Crowley. 

After a fraught discussion, Aziraphale consented to let Crowley take over the management of the properties, and Crowley set himself the task of turning them profitable. Though it wasn't pleasant work, the required skills were very much in the demon's wheelhouse. And with heavenly miracles no longer underwriting Aziraphale's lifestyle, the only other choice would have been to start selling books.

That is why Crowley was off at work on the day Gabriel came. 

It was half past five. The November sky was grey and the air was damp and chilly. Aziraphale's shop had a handful of browsers. His regulars. They knew enough not to try to buy. A kaleidoscope of people were passing by the glass windows and door of the shop. 

Aziraphale was reorganizing a shelf of books near the front windows when the front door rattled. Then there was a knock at the window in front of him. Aziraphale looked up and saw violet eyes. Gabriel pointed an impatient finger at the door and then positioned himself in front of it with an air of being much put-upon. 

Aziraphale walked to the door and didn't open it. 

"You aren't welcome here. Go away please," he said. He closed his right hand over his wedding ring and sent a warning to Crowley. He felt Crowley's answering wave of concern and then a bigger wave of steadfast love. Aziraphale squared his shoulders, walked towards his desk, and picked up the particular book he had chosen for this moment. 

Gabriel rattled the door harder but it didn't open. One of the customers surfaced from her own book and, thinking that the door handle was sticking again, started walking toward the door to open it. Aziraphale intercepted her.

"Thank you for your kind thought, but that individual is not welcome in my shop. I shall unlock the door when he leaves," he said. "You may feel free to ignore him and resume your reading."

The woman gave Aziraphale a look of alarm. Gabriel had started pounding on the glass of the door. 

"If you don't open up this instant, I will put my fist through this door," shouted Gabriel. The woman hid behind a high bookshelf.

Aziraphale sat down in an arm chair that was visible from the door and put his feet up on a cushioned stool that might not have been there a minute ago. He set the book in his lap, opened it to the page he had marked and began to read. 

_ I know I am solid and sound_

A mighty blow landed on the door and the sound of it reverberated through the shop, destroying the peace of the evening. In every corner of the shop, readers looked up from their books. One man even set down his book (marking his place with care) and came over to the balcony railing of upper floor to look down at the front door. The woman who had wanted to open the door was now aiming her phone at the door from her spot behind the shelf. 

Aziraphale continued to slowly read the poem.

_ To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,_

_ All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means._

Three more blows followed the first, and none of them so much as cracked the ancient single pane glass. 

"I'm not playing, Aziraphale," Gabriel shouted through the gap between the doors. "This is your last chance to have this go well for you."

Aziraphale bent his head toward the page.

_ I know I am deathless._

"I was sent here to offer you a deal. It's your last chance." 

_ I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass,_

_ I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night._

Aziraphale looked up at Gabriel and made a careless hand motion towards the door. Gabriel reached for the door handle but then looked down in surprise. There was something in his hand and it was buzzing. Aziraphale pulled his own phone out of his pocket and held it to his ear. 

"What the hell is this?" Gabriel was holding the mobile phone in his hand and shouting at it. Aziraphale moved a finger through the air and remotely swiped the slider on Gabriel's screen. Gabriel hadn't even brought his phone near to his face but his voice through Aziraphale's phone was loud enough that Aziraphale winced and pulled it away from his ear. Aziraphale set his own phone on the side table and put it on speaker mode. 

"Talk," said Aziraphale.

Gabriel glanced down at his phone and then stared at Aziraphale in fury. Then he talked. His voice carried through the shop.

"As little as you deserve it, there are those who are prepared to make you a very generous offer if you will return to the fold."

"Return to the fold?"

"Yes. You'll leave this---" Gabriel gestured at the bookshop and at the street behind him "this---lifestyle behind and receive a position at headquarters with opportunities for advancement." 

"I see," said Aziraphale. "And what would taking this position entail?"

"You tell us everything about the demon Crowley and how he defeated the Great Plan. You tell us everything you know about him. You help us find him and you help us make sure that whatever he did never happens again."

"I'm afraid," said Aziraphale, "That my answer is an unequivocal 'No'."

"I knew it," said Gabriel with disgust. "You are more loyal to that infernal creature than you are to your own kind." Gabriel took a long look at the angel reclining in his chair. "Where is your signet ring?"

"Bottom of the Atlantic," replied Aziraphale, waving the empty fingers of his right hand. He turned the page of the book. A flash of light glinted off the gold on his left hand.

"Is that a wedding band?"

Aziraphale turned back to the poem. 

_ I know I am august,_

"What is that? Some kind of a farce? How could a creature like you get married?"

_ I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,_

"I'll think you'll find that I can get married," said Aziraphale, very quietly. 

"To that demon? To him?", shouted Gabriel. He was turning red. 

_ I see that the elementary laws never apologize._

At some point, the human leaning over the upper floor railing had come down the stairs. Now he was crossing the floor. The woman hiding behind the stacks stepped out as well. Another head poked around a book shelf. Aziraphale stilled them all with a slight shake of his head. Then he turned to his book again. 

_ (I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)_

"That's not a marriage," said Gabriel. "Even humans would say it's not a real marriage unless it's consummated. And you aren't capable of that. So why the hell are you playing at it?" 

Aziraphale flinched, and the archangel saw it. He tried the door handle again; it turned a tiny bit. Aziraphale took a deep breath, read the next line, and let the poet's answer fuel his defiance.

_ I exist as I am and that is enough,_

Aziraphale's soul drank in the words. He felt the solid strength of Crowley's love in the ring on his hand, in his heart, in his memory. Aziraphale's spirit held fast and so the door held fast.

Gabriel gestured at the humans. "You're going to give away your power and then your life for creatures that can't even begin to understand you. And it won't even make a difference." His lips were tight.

_ If no other in the world be aware I sit content,_

_ And if each and all be aware I sit content._

"You are a fool Aziraphale."

_ One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself._

"Do you think that the demon can protect you? Is that what this 'marriage' is about? Believe me, he hasn't got the power to defend you from what's coming. After we wash our hands of you, there will be no safety for you." 

_ And whether I come to my own today or in ten thousand or ten million years,_

_ I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait. _

"Is that all of the message you had for me?", asked Aziraphale. He borrowed his equanimity from the poet, and he stared at Gabriel until the archangel dropped his eyes. 

"Well then," said Aziraphale. "Good evening to you." 

Aziraphale glanced at his phone and it chirped and went dark. Gabriel realized that the phone in his hand had disappeared and he kicked the door violently in response. Aziraphale returned to reading with complete concentration.

  
_ My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite,_

Gabriel's voice, coming through the crack between the doors, was filled with quiet menace. 

"You think you're cute! We'll see how long you survive without us!" 

_ I laugh at what you call dissolution,_

_ And I know the amplitude of time._

The shop was silent. Aziraphale looked up. Gabriel was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of Myself was written by American poet Walt Whitman and was first published anonymously as part of a poetry collection called Leaves of Grass. The parts quoted are from verse 20. 
> 
> Whitman was a contemporary and friend of Oscar Wilde, and was very likely a gay man. Unlike Wilde, whose early death was hastened by his imprisonment for homosexuality, Whitman died of old age, a celebrated poet in his home country. 
> 
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45477/song-of-myself-1892-version


	17. The Courage of Mortals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale contemplates Gabriel's words and wonders if he is to die or fall. Humans, past and present, help him to deal with his situation.

"Well he was quite the shitgibbon." 

The bookshop erupted in uneasy laughter. The woman who had spoken, Charlotte, had never been one to hold back her opinions. 

"Mr. Fell," said a man who emerged from around a corner, "are you all right? Should we call the police?"

"I've already called," said the balcony man. His name was William. "And I'll be happy to give them a report of what I saw."

"Would you like a hug?", said another woman, whose name Aziraphale really ought to remember. He was actually feeling a bit overwhelmed. Aziraphale looked around at the humans in wonder. He wasn't sure how much they had understood of what they heard, but they seemed to comprehend the emotional truth of it. Aziraphale felt strangely indebted to them. He'd always felt foolish and useless during the times he'd been forced to bear witness to human suffering. But now he was so grateful that someone had borne witness for him. 

"What he said about you and your husband was wrong," said William. "Some people are just bigots."

Charlotte put a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. "I have dealt with members of these sorts organizations before. If you don't have someone, I can help you to make a plan to keep yourself and your husband safe." 

Was Charlotte a solicitor? Aziraphale couldn't remember. His mind was spinning. Now the humans were all talking at once. They had surrounded his chair, and they didn't even seem to need his participation as they talked over each other, each trying to prove their mastery of the events of the evening. Aziraphale sat silently in their midst, Walt Whitman still in his lap, mulling over the meanings hidden in the interstices between Gabriel's words. 

Gabriel had come to the shop tonight to tell Aziraphale that he was going to be cut off from heaven and allowed to die. He wanted to terrify him, and failing that, the archangel had tried to humiliate Aziraphale, reveling in his intimate knowledge of his limits, and all but admitting to heaven's cruel method for keeping Aziraphale from ever straying from its simulacrum of love. 

How many gifts had been taken from him? How much of the person he would have been had been removed? Aziraphale didn't know, nor could he access the rage that he imagined he ought to feel right now. But here, sitting in his chair in his bookshop at what might be the end of his life, Aziraphale felt considerable pride. Aziraphale looked around at his incomparable private library and at the humans whom he had sheltered from an archangel's wrath, and he smiled with satisfaction. If he had only a few hours left before he fell, or was turned mortal, or was erased from existence, he at least had had this moment. 

They humans standing around his chair were so brave and foolish, imagining themselves attacking Gabriel, mastering him, destroying his life with their human arts. They didn't understand what they were up against. But if they had, Aziraphale considered, some of them might still try. That was the power of their love for him. He could feel their love, their protectiveness. It caused them to be so brave and heedless of their own safety. And what was he to them? Just a middle aged man that they knew by a false name that he'd given them. If they'd do this for him, what would they do for their own spouses and parents and children? Did love make for bravery? 

Perhaps they were brave because they had always had to accept mortality. And once mortality is accepted, what else is there to do but to plunge into the fray: to see, to taste, to touch, to struggle, to triumph, to suffer, to love, to mourn, to take every ounce of life experience, and to pull pleasure from every last bit of it? Was that what courage was? Was that what Whitman was trying to tell him? 

Aziraphale fancied that Whitman would have approved of him, had they met. Even handicapped by heaven, Aziraphale had found his own way to being a complete person. He'd felt his way along blindly for thousands of years, with the help of countless humans and one very patient demon, and now he was fully himself. And he liked who he had become. He was brave. He thought for himself. He was strong enough to protect the people he cared about. He had a home and a husband who loved him. 

How he had loved Crowley. That was where his courage failed him. To be winked out of existence after a hundred human lifetimes, that he could accept. But to have been the lover of such an extraordinary creature for only a few months seemed unfair. It was true that he couldn't consummate his marriage in the way Gabriel thought necessary, but it had never mattered to him. He had gloried in how his hands and his mouth could work on his lover. The feeling of flicking his tongue under the ridge of his lover's cockhead as it twitched under his tongue, the taste of the slickness, the feel of firm flesh sliding against the back of his palate as his mouth rode up and down just slightly too slowly for his writhing lover. He had tuned his movements so finely that he could make the agony of neediness turn into the ecstasy of release with just a flick of his tongue. 

A hundred lifetimes of being pushed around and talked over and manipulated by every angel in heaven, and at the end a demon had yielded his powerful body entirely to Aziraphale. Aziraphale's tongue, whose words had been rejected on high, had at last held sway in the private conference rooms of his home, its tiniest motions amplified by the entire body of his beloved. And was holding his lover in thrall in this way loving or selfish? Both. That was the magic of it. The giving and the receiving were all one thing.

Aziraphale had liked to take his time. Why shouldn't he? His own body had no needs to distract him from his work. He'd loved to feel the gathering pressure under his fingertips, the feeling in his hand of rewarding firmness with firm strokes, and then releasing his grip to tease again with slick fingers, so that the next time his grip would be met with even greater firmness. He remembered, one afternoon, only a half-season ago, when, with one hand full of Crowley's cock, he had traced the fingers of his other hand up along the straining muscles of his lover's arms, stretched as they were over his head, until his fingers touched the soft leather handcuffs that bound the demon's wrists to a strap on the headboard. To have such a beautiful creature spread out beneath him had filled Aziraphale with wonder. And how had Crowley even known that the handcuffs would please him so? 

How could he leave such a person behind? Aziraphale ached at the thought of it. Crowley never took advantage, never asked for more than was offered, accepted everything the angel gave him, his eyes always full of silent and wondering admiration. What would become of him afterwards? Would he ever taste food again? Would he walk the earth alone? Would he find someone who could love him as he deserved? No immortal existed who could love Crowley well enough. Heaven was full of cold cruel angels and hell's denizens were rough and selfish. How many more evenings and mornings and afternoons would they have before the finish? One? A thousand? Heaven's timetable wasn't like the human one that Aziraphale had entrained himself to follow. The blow could come at any time. 

But it was that way for all of the humans. Any of them could have their lives snuffed out, at any moment, and they faced it, day after day, with such grace. How could he not have learned this grace from them? He'd had six thousand years to absorb it. They'd left him a road map: Plato and Shakespeare and Wilde and all of the others. He'd need to be as brave as they had been. 

Aziraphale was still sitting in the midst of the humans when Crowley burst through the front door. He crossed the room, plucked the book out of the angel's lap and set it carefully aside, and then pulled Aziraphale up into his arms.

"It was Gabriel," said Aziraphale. "He never got inside." 

"I know, Angel. You did fine. It's good."

"You were--"

"We'll talk later. Hush."

Crowley rocked their bodies together in a slow twisting motion, back and forth. Aziraphale started to shudder, and then he put his head down on Crowley's shoulder and surrendered to the gentle motion. He clung to the fabric at the sides of Crowley's ribs and he let the spasms roll up his body until his tears started to flow. 

Crowley looked over Aziraphale's shoulder at the humans. "Out. All of you."

"We can't leave. The police are on their way," said William. "A man attacked this shop. I want to make a statement. I recorded the attack."

"Police aren't coming," said Crowley. "Out."

"I beg your pardon," said William.

"You don't want to get involved in this," said Crowley. "Believe me. Now get out." He made a small impatient gesture. Every phone in the room silently erased its videos and photos.

Almost all the humans headed for the door.

"I'll get Stuart," said Charlotte. "He's probably still lost in the stacks with his hearing aids turned off." She marched upstairs. 

"Crowley," said Aziraphale. 

"Shhh. Not yet." Crowley held Aziraphale. He rocked him in his arms and made soothing sounds in his ear. 

Charlotte returned with a small man behind her. He was adjusting his hearing aids as he walked. He looked up, saw the shopkeeper sobbing in the arms of his husband, nodded sadly and saw himself out. 

That left just one human. Crowley turned to face her and jerked his thumb towards the door.

"Listen," said Charlotte, "You two don't have to do this alone."

"Out." said Crowley.

The door shut. Crowley locked it with a glance and then, with another glance, dimmed the lights in the front of the shop. He led his sobbing angel to the sofa and pulled the two of them down onto the sofa so that he was folded under Aziraphale, his arms around his back, his legs surrounding the angel's. The angel's hands were still fisted in the sides of his shirt and tears wetted his chest where his shirt puckered open between strained buttons. 

"You were right," said Aziraphale. "He all but said it. They neutered me like a dog. Like a dog, Crowley. So I'd be easier to kick around."

There was no way to answer that, so Crowley kissed the top of his angel's head. Aziraphale cried for a few minutes more. Then he sat up in the cradle of Crowley's legs, one of the demon's legs stretched across his lap and the other curled behind his back. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. He blew his nose and then he breathed through it. He folded the handkerchief carefully and put it in his pocket. Then he spoke in a steady and clear voice. 

"They're going to cut me off, Crowley. Now that might simply mean no more miracles. But you should know, it could also..."

"We've been planning for this, Angel. Whatever happens, we can handle it together. Now, can you still do miracles as of now?"

Aziraphale nodded. He materialized a rubber duck from the air and set it down on an end table. Then he spoke. 

"I'd like to make love to you tonight."


	18. Darkest Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven cuts Aziraphale off, and Crowley keeps him alive.

Aziraphale had defied heaven again tonight, and the full force of their wrath would descend on him at any moment. The last two times he had faced existential terror, Aziraphale's compassion for others had distracted him. This time there was no impending apocalypse, no threat to humanity or even to Crowley. Some unknowable and fearful fate was coming for him alone. Aziraphale knew what he wanted to do in his last hours. It was both a distraction from fears and a defiance of heaven. It would concentrate his mind and fill his senses, and if it was the last thing he ever did, then his last act would have been one of love. 

Aziraphale felt the sheet under his belly and the press of his elbows into the mattress, the heat and fullness of the slowly swelling cock in his mouth. He tried to concentrate, to make his tongue and his cheeks and his lips to coordinate in the pattern that he knew was pleasing. But he kept losing the rhythm and his lips seemed to keep going slack and threatening to uncover teeth. Why couldn't he smell anything? Why were his cheeks so tired? And why did his eyes ache?

"Aziraphale," said Crowley, "This was a bad idea. It isn't working for either of us." He reached down and stroked the angel's cheek. "Oh my goodness, you're crying again. No, don't bury your face down there. Let me hold you." 

Aziraphale couldn't even crawl up his husband's body. He just lay his cheek at the junction of Crowley's thigh and let his tears fall into the thatch of hair surrounding the demon's softening penis. He wrapped his arms around Crowley's thigh like a drowning man. Crowley wrestled himself up to sitting and bent over his angel. He ran his fingers through the angel's hair and along his back. 

"But I wanted to--"

"Not happening tonight, Angel. Come on, let's get you dressed."

Aziraphale sat up, snuffling.

"Well," said Aziraphale, "At least we can order take away. I've wanted to introduce you to--"

"Not interested," said Crowley. He got out of bed. He snagged his dressing gown from the back of a chair and put it on. Then he walked over to Aziraphale's wardrobe and opened the doors. "Now let's find something you're really comfortable in. How 'bout your Ebeneezer Scrooge nightgown? You like that one."

Crowley grabbed a neatly folded pile of white cotton from the top shelf of the wardrobe and tossed it onto the bed next to Aziraphale. 

"But you hate it."

"I don't hate anything you love, Angel. Put it on. Let's get you cozy." 

Aziraphale pulled the nightgown over his head and threaded his arms through. He wiggled himself to the edge of the bed and stood up and shimmied the soft white cotton all the way down. It nearly reached his ankles. Crowley was already at his side, buttoning the little cloth covered buttons at the wrists.

"I can do it myself, you know," said the angel.

"Yeah, but just let me." 

Three buttons on one wrist and three on the other. And then the lacing on the chest. Crowley tightened twelve crisscrossing rows of soft cotton lacing and finished them off with a bow at the angel's neck. 

"Right," said Crowley. "Let's get you under the covers." He dimmed the bedside light until there was only a small pool of yellow under the lamp. 

"But why? I won't sleep at all unless we--"

"We'll talk. We don't need to make love every night. Sex wasn't why I fell in love with you. Remember how we used to talk? Come on. Hop in."

Crowley settled himself against the stack of pillows on the headboard and Aziraphale crawled into his arms and lay his head on the demon's chest. 

"First things first," said Crowley. "Do the thing. I want to share a little."

It only took a moment. A deep kiss, a minute of angelic concentration, and a bit of Aziraphale was inside Crowley and a bit of Crowley was inside the angel. Having a solid slug of demon soul inside him was very grounding for Aziraphale. He felt better already. It was as if he could feel Crowley's calming breaths from inside him. He lay his head back down on Crowley's chest and wrapped his arms around him. Crowley held him and rubbed little circles on his back. 

"Why are you never afraid?", Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley stared up at the ceiling. 

"Angel, I'm afraid all the time. I'm a professional at being afraid. You're new at this because you just figured out that Heaven is full of bastards. Hell never pretended to be anything other than what it was, so I got a six thousand year head start on you."

"Oh."

"Now let's talk about something pleasant," said the demon.

"Crowley?"

"Yes."

"If Hell hadn't been telling you what to do, what do you think you would have done with your life?"

"Good question," said Crowley. "Are we assuming that I'd have had all my demonic powers, and no one to answer to?"

"Yes."

"Well," said Crowley, "I think I still would have enjoyed making trouble. Different sort though. Like.... I'd have wanted to make the kind of trouble that sort of pushed people out of their ruts, made em think for themselves, made 'em face the truth about what they were really choosing."

"How would you have done it?", said Aziraphale.

"You want me to make plans at this hour? I dunno. If it were now-a-days, I'd want to be like Banksy or something. Do something they can't ignore. Shake people up a bit."

"You want to be Banksy?"

"Like him. But maybe with technology or something. Yeah. I could really mess things up. What if I switched all the paychecks in one of those big companies, so everybody got a random someone else's pay check, and some guy at the bottom ends up with a big fat check and he buys a house for everyone in his family, and the CEO's wife bounces her check for the kid's polo lessons. That would be good. Everyone running around in confusion, and they try to undo it but they can't and the lucky handful of folks that got the big checks become celebrities for months. And then the big stupid company spends years trying to unravel it all, with the press watching their every move. That would be fun."

"Did you just come up with that idea?"

"Yep."

"You're brilliant, you know," said Aziraphale.

"Thanks," said Crowley. "How 'bout you? If Heaven hadn't been breathing down your neck, what would you have done with the past 6000 years?"

"I remember at the beginning," said Aziraphale, "I thought of myself as 'Defender of Humanity and Protector of Eden.' I wanted to keep the humans safe, protect their beautiful little world. And then...well, even after Eden was all over, my superiors stopped me at every turn. 'Free will', they said, but it wasn't really 'free will' because they kept doing these horrible things to the humans and... Heaven wouldn't let me protect them... and... I remember I got so very angry. After the flood, I stormed heaven--"

"Happy thoughts, Aziraphale. Happy thoughts. What would you have done if you had no constraints?"

"I'd have been a real defender of humanity. I'd have stopped wars, gotten rid of bad leaders."

"How? Would you have smote the bad ones?" 

"Not smiting... maybe a well timed intestinal flu here and there... an unfortunate slip of the tongue at a public event... but mostly I'd persuade the people... they'd listen to me... I'd give them good advice... make it easier for the good leaders to succeed... smooth the way..."

"See? Now you're getting happier," said Crowley. "I can feel it."

"Can you tell me a story?"

Crowley lay underneath Aziraphale in the dim room and held him in his arms and talked to him. The pieces of their souls wrapped around each other while Crowley's hands smoothed over the angel's face and hair and back. Hours passed, and Crowley never stopped talking. He told gentle stories about their past, he told funny stories about his days in London. Nothing challenging. Nothing complex. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The change came just before midnight. A wave of coldness rushed through the angel's body. Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's arms. Crowley stopped talking, wrapped his arms tightly around the angel's head and shoulders, pinned the angel's legs down to the bed with his own and whispered: "I've got you. We're together."

Crowley felt the first pain through the connection he shared with the angel. It was behind the angel's eyes. Then he felt a pulse of panic. He guessed that Aziraphale had been blinded. Aziraphale was trying to throw his head backwards to escape the pain, and he was whimpering. Crowley held him tightly to keep him from thrashing. The angel had never been able to bear any sort of pain. He was so delicate. Crowley kept his breathing steady and sent whatever calm he could through his soul connection. 

A shriek exploded in Crowley's head. That was from the bit of Aziraphale that was inside of him. But the angel in his arms was only making a wordless gulping noise. Crowley felt the echoes of pain in his own throat. The angel couldn't speak anymore. "I'm here, Aziraphale," Crowley said. He used his angel's name. Whatever happened tonight, the angel mustn't forget his name. "Aziraphale, I love you. We're together." 

Aziraphale's breaths were coming faster, but as the pain rose he gradually ceded control of his own body to Crowley and Crowley was able to use the little piece of himself that was inside the angel to partially override Aziraphale and keep him from hyperventilating. Crowley kept his own breaths deliberately slow and tried to bring the angel's breathing in alignment with his. He had enough experience of pain to know that this would make it easier. He kept saying his husband's name and his own like a mantra. "Aziraphale. It's Crowley. I'm here. We're together. Always together."

The next type of pain almost took Crowley's breath away. It was a sharp clenching in the angel's chest. He himself had to concentrate to breathe through it, and he couldn't force the angel's body to keep breathing. The angel stiffened in his arms, his chest rigid and still. But the angel didn't need to breathe to live. And Crowley could feel that he was alive, though the angel's soul was shrinking away from his body, and the piece of Aziraphale that was inside of Crowley was incoherent with terror.

The next pain was so severe that it almost felt like it was happening in Crowley's body. A stabbing sensation shot from his perineum to his balls and suddenly his abdomen was filled with a clenching agonizing fire that ran down his penis and the insides of his legs like a funhouse mirror opposite to an orgasm. Crowley gritted his teeth and willed his legs to not shake. He needed to use his legs to keep the angel pinned down so he wouldn't hurt himself with thrashing. 

Crowley could barely hold on. Aziraphale's hands were pummeling his ribs. The angel's torso was trying to twist out of his grip. Aziraphale's soul had retreated completely; it had ceased to interact with his body. His soul, normally so effusive and fluid, had become an impossibly dense, silent golden ball hiding in the center of his corporation. The tiny bit of Crowley that was inside him was entirely running his body. 

Crowley didn't even know if Aziraphale felt the electric jolt that started at his tailbone and ran up his spine. As the jolt happened, the angel's body reared up out of Crowley's arms, arching backwards. Crowley felt a painful explosion in the angel's head, and then he needed to pay attention to his own body because he was being pummeled. The angel's feet were landing painful blows on his shins, and his hands were battering at the sides of Crowely's ribs. The angel's head and shoulders were rearing back with inhuman strength. Crowley couldn't cling on any longer. He threw his hands over his face to protect himself and rolled out from under the angel's body, crying Aziraphale's name again and again.

The angel never thrashed himself off the bed. That was a blessing. After a few minutes, the violent movements ceased, and Crowley was able to lay his own body on top of Aziraphale's twitching corporation. Aziraphale was still alive. He had to be. The tiny bit of the angel's soul that was inside of Crowley was ricocheting through his body, shrieking so loudly that Crowley could barely keep his own corporation under control. If that bit of Aziraphale was alive, the so must the rest be. 

Crowley could feel the pain ebbing from the angel's body. The majority of the angel's soul, the part that was in the angel's body, was a tiny dense marble and Crowley couldn't feel past the edges of it. 

"It's all done," whispered Crowley. "Please come back to me Aziraphale." 

He kept his breathing slow. He refused to panic. Some part of his mind wanted to kick him. If he had only had the skill, he could have switched bodies with the angel right at the start and taken all of the pain. Or maybe just some of it. How much was the pain of the soul and how much the pain of the body? How could he know? He should have learned about these things from Aziraphale. He'd been so foolish. He'd let Aziraphale do all the work every time they shared bodies. He'd been so stupidly concerned with never taking away a drop of Aziraphale's agency. He'd been so afraid of accidentally hurting him, accidentally overwhelming the angel with his own dark needs. And tonight, when the moment came that the angel needed him, Crowley had been too ignorant to do anything to help.

What had the angel taught him? Crowley did his best to do what Aziraphale had done for him in those first few days when they had been together. He poured all the love he could into the tiny panicked piece of Aziraphale's soul that was inside of him. And it worked. The little piece of angelic soul-stuff gentled and let itself be held. It shivered silently inside of him. Silent, but alive.

Now for the rest of him. Crowley crouched over his husband's body, whispering into his ear, trying to pour his love in in any way he could. Inside the angel's body, the little piece of Crowley's soul scrabbled along the impenetrable smoothness of the angel's soul, but he couldn't feel any emotions coming from it. 

When consciousness didn't return to the angel's body, Crowley decided that he had to try possessing it. Crowley rolled it over and pressed his lips to its lips and breathed the air out of his body and into the angel's. He stretched and pushed his own sluggish and heavy soul until it found its way inside of the angel's aching body and there he found and enveloped the tiny ball of golden light that was the angel's essence. Finally, now that it was protected from the pain of its body, it responded to him. 

_Come on out, Aziraphale. Its all over._

_My body hurts. It hurts so much, Crowley. _

_Then share mine. _

Crowley flowed around him like tar, and pulled him, slowly, into his own body. He took all of the angel into himself and left a piece of himself behind in the angel's aching body. The pain was much less than it had before, and Crowley could bear up under it so much better than his angel ever could. It was the least he could do. Aziraphale hid inside the demon, a small golden ball of fearful angel soul-stuff. He barely stirred. Crowley couldn't sense any coherent thoughts from him. The silence was frightening. 

Crowley looked over the angel's body carefully. It seemed unchanged and uninjured, at least from the outside. He lay the angel's body on the bed, on its belly. He held his hand in front of its face to verify that it was breathing. He picked up a blanket off the floor and pulled it over the body to keep it warm. The piece of Crowley that was inside of it could feel how it ached, but the ache didn't seem concentrated in any particular place. At any rate that ache wasn't that much more than the aching of Crowley's own bruised body. It was fine. There were more important things to worry about.

Crowley wrapped his dressing gown back around his waist. Then he took himself, and his precious passenger, downstairs to the shop. He walked over to the chair that Aziraphale had been sitting in earlier and he picked up the book of poetry. He sat down, turned on the reading lamp, and opened the book. As he paged through it, he felt Aziraphale begin to stir inside him. 

"'Leaves of Grass'. There's no author listed. Huh," said Crowley.

_The American, Walt Whitman. _The angel's voice sounded so strained and tired.

"An American?"

_I thought it appropriate to read an American on the day I made a reckless bid for my freedom._

"So, Angel, what poem am I reading?"

_The first one, please. It's untitled._

Crowley began: 

"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you."

Crowley wasn't a reader of poetry. He struggled over the lines, reading each stanza over with his eyes two or three times before attempting to voice the words. Gradually, as the verses went on, Aziraphale started to share in the reading of it. At first, he made little changes to Crowley's pacing, and then he took over the intonation, urging Crowley's voice to rise and fall so as to bring out more of the meaning of the words. It took them nearly a half an hour to reach the stanza that Aziraphale had been reading when he repelled Gabriel from the shop. 

At that point the angel took over Crowley's voice completely. With the poet's words, Aziraphale glorified all of the varied human experiences. He defended carnality and all the enjoyments and all the miseries of the flesh. He found God in all things and beauty in all people. He defied all labels and boundaries, even the boundary of death. At the end, over an hour after they'd begun reading, Crowley was able to close his eyes and listen while Aziraphale used their shared mouth to recite the last stanzas from memory. 

Crowley leafed back over to the title page. 

"Is this a first edition, Angel?"

_Yes. Well spotted. I'm extremely proud of this volume. I did get a signed copy from the second printing, but twenty five years ago I finally got my hands on this first edition. _

"You had a signed copy? So you met this American?"

_No, actually, Oscar Wilde gifted me with the autographed volume._

"He was acquainted with Whitman?"

_Wilde claimed that they kissed._

"Humph," said Crowley. "Wilde made a lot of claims."

_You never did like him, did you?_

Crowley stood up and grabbed a mug. He filled it with milk and heated it by holding it in his hands and wishing it warm. Then he found the cocoa tin, levered open the lid, and added a heaping spoonful of powder to the cup. 

_More than that._

"Yes, Angel?"

_You need to add at least one more spoonful of the powder._

"How's this?"

_Good. Now stir it so the cocoa doesn't fall to the bottom._

"Is this good?"

_Perfect._

"Shall we bring this up to the body that can actually drink it?


	19. Freed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learns what it means to be freed of heaven.

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed, in his own body, wearing his night gown and drinking cocoa two-handed while Crowley rubbed small circles on his back. The taste of the cocoa was as it always had been. The pain had mostly gone. His body still worked, and the drinking reminded him of the gloriousness of having a body and being in it. When he reached the dregs, he handed the cup to Crowley. 

"Thank you dear. You were a great help." He took a deep breath and walked over to his mirror. "Now I suppose that I need to figure out what happened. Gabriel didn't give much of a clue."

Aziraphale peered into the mirror and touched his face and head fearfully. 

"You look exactly the same, Aziraphale."

"I'm going to try to put my wings out," said the angel. 

"Let me help," said Crowley. "No need to ruin this night gown." He stood behind Aziraphale and helped him to ruck a yard and a half of cotton fabric up over his back, bunching it up around his shoulders. Crowley worked his way around in front of Aziraphale, so that his hands on the angel's shoulders would hold up the handfuls of soft white cloth in place. Aziraphale closed his eyes and concentrated. 

Wings burst into the air behind the angel, bumping into the bed and reaching up nearly to the ceiling. Crowley looked them over. They were snowy white and slightly bedraggled, just like usual. 

"They look fine."

Aziraphale put them away, and Crowley helped him to shimmy his robe back down. Aziraphale stood and looked around as if he were gathering his courage. "I need to try a miracle," he said. 

Aziraphale reached into the air. Nothing happened. His face fell. 

"Let's keep calm," said Crowley. "Try again, try to do something different." 

Aziraphale's face strained as he moved his hands, and, once again, nothing happened. 

"We planned for this," said Crowley. He took Aziraphale's face into his hands and made him meet his eyes. "We know how to take care of ourselves without miracles, right?"

Aziraphale nodded. He bit his lip. 

"Could have been much worse," said Crowley. 

Aziraphale tried to keep his courage up. After all, he had made a choice, the right choice, and he intended to accept the consequences with dignity. He had barely used miracles at all for the past few months, and, other than when his tea got cold, he hadn't missed them at all. He would get used to living without them, and this terribly helpless feeling would go away. He surely wouldn't be a burden to Crowley as long as he kept himself out of trouble and didn't do anything that risked injury. He just needed to remember to be appreciative of his husband.

"You brought me back tonight," said Aziraphale. "You were amazing. I might not have survived without you." 

"Eh," said Crowley. He shrugged his shoulders. "You would have done alright."

"No," said Aziraphale. "I wouldn't have. I'm sure of it." He put his hands on the demon's upper arms. "Thank you."

Crowley flinched. Aziraphale stopped talking, considered, and then gently pushed the dressing gown down over the demon's shoulders.

"Your arms! Those are finger prints! Did I do that to you? My goodness, why didn't I notice?"

"It's fine. No worries, Angel."

Aziraphale pushed the demon's dressing gown down to his waist and then unbelted it and peeled it off. He saw red ribs and darkening welts on the demon's legs. He kneeled down and inspected the concentric rings of color: dark purple surrounding red surrounding yellowing white.

"My goodness! I hurt you!"

Instinctively, he covered the worst injuries with his hands. Power flowed through his hands and when he removed them, Crowley's shins were healed. Aziraphale moved his hands up along the demon's body, erasing every injury until his hands finally reached the demon's face and rested along either side of Crowley's open jaw.

"You just healed me," said Crowley. "You still have miracles."

"I don't know why they didn't work earlier," said Aziraphale.

"Well try it again." 

Aziraphale reached into the air, and nothing happened. 

"Okay," said Crowley, "Being able to do healing is the most important thing, right? It lets us keep ourselves safe. So we are doing really well here. Better than expected." He rubbed his hands together. "Right, what were you trying to do, just now, that didn't work?"

"Pull a dove out of the air."

"Who needs a dove anyway?" said Crowley. "It's not like we'll be in a tight squeeze and say to ourselves 'Oi! What we need right now is a snow-white dove!' It's just as well really. The healing is the most important. We can figure out the rest in the morning. Tonight we celebrate!"

He pulled Aziraphale into his arms and kissed him. Then he pulled back and smiled. It was impossible for Aziraphale not to smile back. Crowley reached out and tugged at the lacing of Aziraphale's Victorian night gown.

"May I?", asked the demon. 

And Aziraphale nodded.

The demon pulled him close and kissed him gently on lips and jaw and neck. He worked his fingers under the collar of the gown and then moved them forward to reach for the lacing at the front. He kissed the angel's neck as his fingers untied the bow at the top and then his lips followed his fingers down the angel's chest as he plucked the cotton laces completely out of their eyelets, inch after inch of cotton lacing tugged through the eyelets, one row at a time, through twelve inches of eyelets, until finally, finally he pulled the entire yard of cotton ribbon free of the last eyelet and cast it to the floor. 

Then he spread his hands over the angel's chest and pushed the dressing gown open and down until shoulders and pectorals were bared and the gown hung from Aziraphale's elbows, with the fabric of the sleeves bunching all the way down to the buttoned wrists. Crowley unbuttoned three fabric covered buttons on one side and three on the other, kissing the soft inside of each wrist as he worked. 

He stood back to admire the half undressed angel. Aziraphale's soft body emerged from the clouds of white cotton fabric. The cloth floated around the middle of his ribs. Crowley walked behind the angel and kissed the nape of his neck, letting his lips brush the little curls there. He brought his hands up to brush the angel's shoulders and insinuated his hands into the sleeves of the dressing gown and slid his fingers down the angel's arms, pushing the gown free ahead of his fingers so that the garment would drop to the floor just as his thumbs reached the pulse points of the angel's wrists. It made a puddle of white on the floor.

Crowley nestled his cock in the crevice of his angel's bottom as he brought his arms up to surround the angel's chest and pull the angel toward him. He kissed his angel and began to grind and move and find the gentle rhythm that would eventually bring him his release, or close enough to it. If the angel tired of being adored in this way, he would finish Crowley off with hand or mouth and his work would go quickly. But there would be many glorious moments to enjoy before the finish. Crowley made sweet kisses along the side of Aziraphale's neck as he thrusted against him. He knew how to make love to his angel. There would be no teeth, no sucking of bruises into skin. Just gentleness and mutual adoration. The angel would sigh and tell him how lovely he was and let his body be the vehicle by which Crowley got his pleasure. 

But something was wrong. Aziraphale wasn't rolling his body gently back into the sensations. He was trembling and twitching and rigid. He was making a choking panting noise. The angel reached up to pull Crowley's hand off of his chest. He wrapped his hand around Crowley's and dragged their hands down his body, over his round soft belly and through the nest of pubic hair to the root of something firm and swollen. Aziraphale wrapped Crowley's fingers around his erection and wrapped his own hand tightly around Crowley's. 

"Is it real?", the angel asked. "Crowley, do you feel it?"

Crowley took a deep and shaky breath. He ran his hand carefully along the angel's erection. He rested his forehead between the angel's shoulder blades, and took another deep breath, and then another. He raised his face to the ceiling. Two parallel tracks of wetness ran from the bottom of each of his eyes down to his jaw. 

"Thank you, Mother," Crowley said. 

Then carefully, changing his grip as he went so that he could move without letting go of the angel's cock, he slid himself around Aziraphale's body until he was standing in front of him. He put his other hand on the angel's tearstained cheek, and stared directly into his wet blue eyes. He smiled the smallest and most deferential smile he was capable of in this moment. 

"It's real, Aziraphale. It's all yours. What do you want to do with it?"

The angel stuttered. He closed his eyes. He bit his lower lip. Then he made a small nod, as if to himself, and opened his eyes again. He looked at Crowley and narrowed his eyes and spoke earnestly and steadily.

"I want to be inside you."

Crowley nodded. He felt the warmth and hardness of the angel's cock in his hand. He willed his hand to remain still. His heart was loud in his ears. His legs were vibrating with unreleased tension, but he forced them to stay where they were. He would not let himself fall apart. He needed more clarity, and then he would configure his body in whatever way the angel wished, and he would let himself be used for the angel's pleasure. 

"How do you want me?", asked Crowley.

Aziraphale looked confused for a moment. He brought his eyebrows together and he bit his lip again. He turned to look at the bed and he thought. Then he turned back to look Crowley in the eyes.

"I want to see your face," Aziraphale said, at last. "I want to look in your eyes. I don't much care about the rest. Whatever is comfortable for you. I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't hurt me, Angel," said Crowley. He gave the cock in his hand a gentle squeeze and let his hand fall away. "I'll take care of getting myself ready." He saw a flash of sadness cross the angel's face. "It will be faster if I do it." Crowley already had opened the drawer one handed. He grabbed the bottle of lube and a rag and pulled himself onto the bed, crab walking on his back until he could lean against the pillows. He covered the fingers of one hand and then spread his legs, snaked his wet hand around and sunk one finger into himself. With his eyes closed so he could concentrate, he worked the lubrication all the way into himself, past the tight channel and in and around as fast and thoroughly as he could. Then back out and more lube and again and now a second finger. He heard a desperate cry from Aziraphale and he opened his eyes. 

Aziraphale was standing by the side of the bed, with his jaw open and his cock in his hand. He was trembling from head to foot. 

"Oh," said Crowley. "Oh Angel. It's going to be another minute."

Aziraphale whimpered and pressed his lips together.

"Close your eyes," said Crowley. "Take slow breaths. Take your hand away. Think of something dull, like taxes. Can you do that?" 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. Crowley heard the angel slow his breathing. He scissored his own fingers back and forth and let his sphincter relax against the pressure. He exhaled and let all the unseen muscles between his legs and his belly button loosen and open. Getting there. Aziraphale cried again.

"What's the name of that form Angel? The one you hate?"

"Um.... the CT600...." Aziraphale's voice was very high.

"Good. What's the first thing you fill in on the form?" Crowley added more lube to his fingers.

"Um... company name...."

Crowley slipped his fingers in as far as they could go and curled them around. He bit back his own moan of pleasure. "What's on the next line of the form?" 

"Um... registration number..."

"What's your number, Angel?" Crowley pulled his fingers out and added more lube. 

"Um..."

"Registration number, Angel." Aziraphale haltingly recited the digits of his number while Crowley worked his third finger in. 

"Good," said Crowley. "Now get up on the bed."

Crowley felt the bed move and he opened his eyes. Aziraphale was kneeling, well standing on his knees, between Crowley's legs. He was tremendously erect. His hands hung by his sides and twitched, like they were waiting to be told what to do. The angel was staring at the place where Crowley's fingers disappeared into his body. He looked awestruck. 

"Okay," said Crowley. "Get yourself lubed up." He handed over the bottle. The angel knew what to do. The angel had covered Crowley's cock with lube and then let Crowley enter him. He'd done it on several occasions. He'd done it even though it brought him no pleasure beyond the emotional pleasure of letting Crowley be inside him while Crowley covered him with kisses and carefully, gently, sought his own pleasure. 

Aziraphale's eyes widened as Crowley pulled his fingers out. Crowley wiped his hand on the rag and grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under his hips. He pulled his own legs back to give the angel the best possible angle. The angel moaned as he covered his own cock in the lube and then he knee walked forward, took himself in hand and lined himself up at the demon's entrance.

"Ready?", said the angel.

"Please," said Crowley.

The angel moved the tiniest amount possible. 

"You need to actually push a little," said Crowley. "Get on with it."

Aziraphale's hips gave a stutter and then he made a high pitched whine as the head of his cock was enveloped. He collapsed forward, catching himself on his stiffened arms, and breathed ragged breaths. Then he thrust in another inch and cried again. After another few pants, he pushed in a little further and a little further until finally, there was no further to go. He breathed until his breathing was slow and even. He opened his eyes and looked at Crowley. Crowley looked like a cat on its back catching a toy. His back was arched and his eyes were half closed and sparkling and he was smiling. 

"Did you get through the entire tax form, Angel?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "This-- you -- its really -- I just need to-- OH"

Crowley wrapped his legs around the angel's sides. 

"Ready anytime you are, Angel."

Aziraphale pulled his hips backwards and then rocked them forwards, feeling his way with his cock, trying to find the right angle, and all the while distracted by the overwhelmingness of the heat, the tightness, the slickness. He kept losing his rhythm and then finding it and losing it again, and through it all Crowley was murmuring encouragements and running fingers through his hair and using his legs to pull him in deeper. 

Aziraphale felt himself growing frustrated. He was trying, but his body didn't know what to do. He felt inadequate and overwhelmed. He stilled himself again, closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and mastered the sensations of his groin. When he could bear to open his eyes, Aziraphale searched Crowley's face. 

"I'll help you," said the demon. He put his hands on the angel's back and pulled him lower. He slid his hands down to the angel's hips and, with slight pressure, he showed Aziraphale how to tilt his hips. The angel rocked outwards and in again, trying to follow the arc of motion that Crowley's fingers suggested. When he struck home this time, Crowley grunted with pleasure. Two more grunts later, and Aziraphale understood. The fingers wrapped around his hips more tightly and showed him the tempo, and then he was flying. 

Aziraphale was entrained with Crowley. They were riding the waves together, the sounds they made marking the beat of the rhythm. Each pulse of pleasure crashed through them both simultaneously, erasing thought, ripping sounds from their throats, and then ebbing away just long enough for them to draw breath. 

Aziraphale was entirely a creature of sensation. He couldn't keep his eyes open, but his consciousness was filled with the sounds of his lover, the feel of pushing with his cock through slick tightness into open softness and heat, the way his whole body reverberated every time the head of his cock struck soft flesh. And then the pull backward and the draw of breath and then the rush forward again. 

Aziraphale felt the building of tension in his body but the hand on his hip refused to let him speed up. The rhythm was as strong as a tide, pushing him in, pulling him back. He felt a fluttering against his abdomen that kept time with the waves he was riding. Some distant part of his brain realized that Crowley was taking care of bringing himself to his own reward. Grateful, Aziraphale let himself sink mindlessly into their shared rhythm. The demon's grunts became curses and the curses came faster and faster until they flowed together into an incoherent roar like the sound of the horn of an approaching train. Aziraphale was pulled along as Crowley picked up speed and he kept thrusting, hard and fast, as the body beneath him bucked and clenched around his cock. As the ring of muscle around his cock finally slackened, he thrust deep into the warmth and came. 

Aziraphale collapsed on top of his lover. He didn't move except to breathe. Crowley held the limp angel on his chest for as long as he could bear. Finally, he whispered into the damp curly hair. "Sweetheart, I need you to get off of me. My hips are cramping."

The angel on Crowley's chest glowed a little bit and the now uncomfortable pillow underneath his hips disappeared. The abused muscles of his hips and legs warmed and smoothed and lost all their tension. The stickiness between his legs and on his chest disappeared. The angel rolled slightly to the side to let him adjust his position. As Crowley straightened his legs, he realized that he was now lying directly on the sheets of the bed. The coverlet was gone. The angel threw his leg over both of Crowley's, wrapped an arm around his ribs and muttered. An already warm blanket pulled itself on top of both of them. The angel made a contented sigh, nuzzled Crowley's chest, and didn't move again. 


	20. Where Angels Fear to Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale doesn't want to have a destiny. He'd rather eat cake.

It was definitely the door buzzer. Aziraphale lifted his head from the chest of his sleeping demon. He couldn't remember having ordered breakfast. Had he? He didn't want to move. He was so warm. He pressed himself along the warm flank of his lover and felt his whole body writhe in slow splendid laziness. It felt much better than he expected and he realized that he was half-hard already. It was morning and he was barely awake, and he could already feel, between his belly and the muscles of Crowley's thigh, the firm proof that he was free of heaven at last. 

The door buzzer went off again. The angel silenced it with a thought. Then he closed his eyes and tried to decide what he was going to do with this fabulous new erection. The buzzer sounded again. His miracle hadn't worked. Aziraphale rolled onto his back and thought in the general direction of the door. He could tell it was a human. He tried to send the human away with an irritated thought, but his thought refused to solidify into a miraculous push. The buzzer went off again, and he rolled out of the warm bed and put his feet on the cold floor. 

He looked around for something to put on. His nightgown didn't have any lacing at all, and wouldn't stay on. The demon's dressing gown wouldn't close with enough overlap to be decent. When the buzzer sounded again, Aziraphale tried to miracle some clothes for himself, but the clothing thoughts in his mind refused to materialize into reality. He felt a bit of panic, but he mastered himself. He wouldn't wake Crowley up to dump his fears on him. 

On the floor Crowley had abandoned a pair of loose fitting pajama bottoms. They had a drawstring waist, and they would fit. Aziraphale pulled them on as the buzzer sounded again. Crowley didn't so much as stir. Aziraphale pulled the demon's dressing gown around himself and belted it. His chest was threatening to come uncovered, but he was as decent as he could be on short notice. He went downstairs and walked to the front door. 

The human at the door was Charlotte the solicitor and regular book store patron. She had a tray with three coffees in one hand and a pastry box in the other. Behind her, the Friday morning street was just coming to life with morning commuters. 

Aziraphale opened the door. He was standing in the doorway of his shop, long before opening hours, wearing ill-fitting inappropriate clothes while people walked by. He had no miracles to smooth this interaction, so he called upon millennia of experience to fix the human with his most powerfully haughty glare. 

"We are most definitely closed at this time," he said. 

The human returned his stare. 

"I know," said Charlotte. Her steadiness combined with the fact that, for the first time in his 6000 year existence, he couldn't rely on miracles, flustered Aziraphale. He stepped back involuntarily as the human pushed the tray of coffees into his hands and simultaneously put her foot in front of the door so that he couldn't close it.

"Why are you here?", asked Aziraphale.

"Because fools rush in where angels fear to tread," said Charlotte. "I want to talk to you." She held up the box. "It's Napoleon cake." 

Aziraphale's lips twitched a little at the thought of the cake, and the human narrowed her eyes in triumph. "Give me an hour of your time, and then I'm gone." 

Aziraphale found himself bustling to find plates and utensils. He found himself slipping a pastry server through eight layers of custard and pastry and then plating the first slice. He handed the plate to his guest on the couch and served himself. He settled into his comfortable chair. He slipped a forkful into his mouth and let the custard and berries dance on his tongue while he tried to regain his equanimity. Aziraphale had just broken up with heaven and his miracles weren't working properly and he was wearing his husband's clothes and talking to a human outside of store hours. But the Napoleon cake was just as it should be. He could taste the vodka. The eight layers of puff pastry had been allowed to become soft, just as they should be. It was perfect, and he finished every crumb of his slice before he turned back to the human drinking coffee on his sofa.

"How long have we known each other?", said Charlotte.

Aziraphale searched his mind. It had definitely been more than a year. He didn't usually learn humans' names until they'd been coming to his shop for a year or more. The human in front of him was middle aged, so three decades was likely the upper limit of their acquaintance. The last eleven years of his own immortal life had been rather a blur of activity, but Aziraphale vaguely remembered that Charlotte had been present for at least some of it. 

"Seventeen years," Charlotte supplied. "That's a very long time." 

"Of course it is," said Aziraphale. "How can I help you?"

"Last night," she said. "The man who threatened your life. Who was he?"

"I don't think he's anything for you to worry about my dear," said Aziraphale, waving a lazy hand. 

The miracle didn't work. Nothing changed. Charlotte's face didn't relax. She continued to look very serious. She didn't slide off topic. 

"I like you Mr. Fell," said Charlotte "I don't believe there's a mean bone in your body. I don't know how you ever got mixed up with that man and his organization, but you are clearly in danger. I want to help you get free and get safe."

"That's very kind of you my dear, but I don't require any assistance. I've had plenty of shady characters threaten my business over the years, and I've weathered them all." 

"Bullshit Fell, he wasn't threatening your business and you know it. He was threatening you and your husband. I know this kind of character. I've helped put monsters like him in jail, and I've helped protect people like you."

"Thank you for your concern," said Aziraphale, "but I can protect myself."

"Can you protect your husband?", said Charlotte. 

Some uncontrolled emotion passed across Aziraphale's face. He himself wasn't sure what it was, and Charlotte pressed her advantage before the angel could interrogate his own feelings. 

"Mr. Fell, you need to get help and you need to do it fast. You can't give those monsters any time to hurt you or your husband."

"I think, dear lady, that I must ask you to leave now," said the angel. He stood up. 

"I hope that you have someone good to help you. If not, here's my card. Call me sooner rather than later." 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley came down the stairs just as the human closed the shop door. He looked at the door, then he looked at Aziraphale, who was tucking in to his second slice of Napoleon cake.

"I was going to come get you to share this," babbled the angel. "The human brought it. Quite nice of her. Now I'm going to have to learn her last name."

"Forget the cake, Angel," said Crowley. "We need to talk about last night."

"Oh." Aziraphale looked pained. "I was dreadful wasn't I?"

"What are you...?"

"I want you to know, Crowley, that I'll definitely be making it a priority to improve--"

"Miracles, Angel. We need to talk about your miracles."

The angel looked even more crestfallen. He looked down at the cake in his lap. Then he looked up with wet eyes. 

"I can't do them. I tried to get the human to leave, and I couldn't. I couldn't even get her to change her train of thought. She just kept on and on. It was so unbearably awkward." Aziraphale sniffed. "I suppose I'll have to learn to live without miracles. I'll need to lean on you quite a bit. Have to dust the bookshop by hand, I suppose." 

"You've never yet dusted the bookshop, Angel," said Crowley. "And you can do miracles. You did a half-dozen of them just before you passed out last night. Remember?"

"I did?", said Aziraphale. "Oh. I did. But why can't I...?" He waved his hand a few more times and then shook his head in frustration. 

"I'm not sure either. But I think we should try to find out, and sooner rather than later. If we end up in a tight spot, we'll want to have a firm grasp on what you can and can't do."

Aziraphale slipped a forkful of custard cake into his mouth. He chewed it up rather faster than he normally would, and then he had another bite. "You are right, of course," he said, around a third mouthful. "Best we become knowledgeable about my new limits as soon as possible." Then he sniffed and put another forkful into his mouth. 

Crowley said nothing. He sat down on the sofa opposite Aziraphale and watched him eat the entire slice of cake. He would have very much enjoyed getting to taste it himself, but the angel's need was greater. 

"Do you need to have another slice?", Crowley asked.

"Please." 

Crowley stood up, opened the pastry box, sliced a half-sized piece, and then put it onto the angel's plate. He sat back down on the sofa and watched Aziraphale work his way through it. By the time the angel was chasing the last bits of custard around the plate, he seemed to have found some equanimity. But he kept the empty plate in his lap, with the fork balanced on top of it. 

"I suppose I'll just have to face this, won't I?", said Aziraphale.

"Let's think it through together. We know that you can heal me. And you can do frivolous miracles to make me more comfortable. Right?"

"I suppose," said Aziraphale.

"Remind me of what you were trying to do this morning that didn't work?"

"Make the human shut up and go away."

"Hmmmmm, then I suppose the question is-- is the limit that you can only do things that affect me, or that you can only do nice things?" Crowley stood up spread his arms wide. "Do something mean to me."

Aziraphale raised one hand and pushed at the air in front of Crowley. Nothing happened. He closed his eyes for a minute and breathed slowly. "Well," Aziraphale said, opening his eyes at last, "I suppose it is good that we aren't on opposite sides anymore."

Crowley walked over and sat crosslegged on the floor at Aziraphale's feet. He reached up and took the plate out of his lap and set it on the floor, then he took the angel's hands. 

"I am on your side. I will never hurt you." 

Aziraphale nodded. 

"Now," said Crowley, "I think we need to head out of the shop and find some humans to test your miracles on." 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After four hours of experimenting on the people of London, Aziraphale had a much better idea of the limits of his powers. He could do all the small kindnesses he liked. He could influence people to remember or forget things or change what they were thinking about, as long as it was to the benefit of themselves or other humans. Blessings worked just as usual. Most curses were ineffective, although Aziraphale did manage to make a belligerent drunk walk himself right into the path of a police officer. 

The thing that was frustrating was that big miracles, where he really changed reality, only sometimes worked. It wasn't the size of the miracle that mattered, but what it was being used for. Aziraphale successfully stopped a car accident by moving two cars through each other. But even small miracles for his own convenience didn't work at all. If it weren't for Crowley, they'd have had to wait in line to get a table at lunchtime. 

Aziraphale was working his way through his fourth dessert of the day when Crowley pointed out that Aziraphale could still cross roads without checking for traffic. And humans still seemed to like him everywhere he went. 

"You seem to be protected, still," said Crowley, "And not that I want to test it right now, but I think that if you had to defend yourself or others, you'd be able to." 

"That's a hopeful thought."

"And, another nice thing," said Crowley, "Presumably, no bean counter is auditing these miracles. You can probably do as many as you like."

"As long as I follow a bunch of rules that I don't fully understand," said Aziraphale. His tea was getting cold and it irritated him. He pushed the cup towards Crowley, who warmed it with a motion of his fingers. 

"Well," said Crowley, "From where I'm sitting, the rule looks pretty simple."

"Simple?" said Aziraphale. "What is the simple rule that means that my tea gets cold, but yet we don't have to get out of bed to clean up after sex?"

Crowley spread his hands and shrugged. "Love, Angel. You cleaned me up as an act of love. Acts of love, protectiveness, kindness, they all work. Random stuff you just want to do for your own convenience: not going to work." 

"That doesn't make sense", said Aziraphale. "I always used to--"

"Sure it does. Self-centered displays of power are a heaven thing. You are no longer part of heaven. Ergo: those kinds of miracles are gone."

"But... Oh..." Aziraphale looked a bit disappointed. 

"You made a choice, Angel," said Crowley. "You always wanted to be a force for good. Now you are. No going back now." Aziraphale made a few sputtering noises, but Crowley talked right over them. "Now," he said, tapping the side of his nose, "The more interesting question is the question of where your power is coming from."

"It can't be from Hell," said Aziraphale, "Or I'd be able to do everything you can do. And I can only presume that I'm completely cut off from Heavenly power. Last night was--" 

"Traumatic," said Crowley. He sipped his tea. "So, not from Heaven, not from Hell. What does that leave?"

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "Oh," he said. "The Almighty." 

Crowley nodded. "She vested you with your power in the first place, right? Didn't She personally send you to the Eastern Gate?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Oh my. This is a bit intimidating. I mean, the last time I spoke to Her--"

"You lied to Her," said Crowley. He smirked.

"I suppose this must mean I'm forgiven?", said Aziraphale.

"I'm not the one to ask about that topic," said Crowley. "But I am guessing that you might want to consider taking your old job back."

"May I remind you that I failed completely at guarding? It's my fault Eden was lost."

"Hmph," said Crowley. "You are always undervaluing my contributions."

"Anyway, Crowley, even if I wanted that job, it would be a bit difficult to take it back on, considering that there is no Garden of Eden anymore."

"Sure there is," said Crowley. "It's just gotten much bigger." He spread his arms out to indicate their surroundings. He waggled his eyebrows.

"You think the Almighty expects me to guard this whole planet?"

Crowley nodded. "And all the humans and animals thereupon."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Well," said Crowley, "You aren't a soldier of heaven anymore, right?"

"Definitely not."

"So who do you fight for?"

"Ahhhhh...," said Aziraphale. He looked around vaguely at the crowd of humans around them. 

"Exactly," said Crowley. "You are a champion of humanity, doer of good deeds, and defender of all the Earth."

"By order of the Almighty herself." Aziraphale's voice dripped with sarcasm.

Crowley nodded. "It is what you always wanted."

Aziraphale gazed out the window at a distant building that had no particularly interesting features. "It's an awfully tall order for a single angel," said Aziraphale. He pursed his lips. "I don't think it would even be possible for me to do it."

"I'd help," said Crowley. 

"How exactly would you help me 'defend the entire Earth'?"

"Same way I've always helped you," said Crowley, "Lend you a hand. Give you advice. Manage the things that you don't like to deal with. Bail you out of trouble. Help keep up your spirits."

"No. It's a ridiculous notion."

"It's needed, Angel. Heaven and Hell are gunning for this place." Crowley waved a waitress over to get the check. 

"No." Aziraphale said. "I think you are absolutely jumping to the wrong conclusions. Now, we need to spend a few more days doing experiments, and then I'll think things over carefully. I'm sure that it will all become clearer as we go forward." 

"Fine," said Crowley. "Suit yourself. We'll do more 'research' tomorrow. But I think I'm done with this for the day."

"What do you mean 'done with this for the day'? What else could be more important?"

"If we're not going to defend all of Earth," said Crowley, "Then I have a job to get to. May I remind you: I run a transnational property management company. And it's all your fault!"

"Yes," said Aziraphale, flinching, "Sorry about that."


	21. Tears in Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale experiences rage as he finally remembers being abused. Crowley experiences a slow motion horror show of drunken angel telling him terrible things.

Aziraphale and Crowley didn't talk about miracles at all on the walk home. When they got back to the shop, Crowley grabbed his computer and went to a cafe to commandeer a prime table and slowly drink one coffee over the course of a whole afternoon while he shouted his way through dozens of international phone calls. 

Aziraphale didn't bother opening the bookshop. He needed to do some thinking. He drew all the shades down over the windows and doors. He sat down at his desk. He thumbed through some of his old bibles. He reread Genesis. He tried to remember how it had felt to be the defender of humanity, at the beginning, in Eden. He remembered how fiercely he used to love the humans. It had been so simple. Everything he'd done for them had been so instinctive. 

And then he'd given away his sword. And he'd talked to the Almighty for the last time. From then on, all his orders had come from other angels. Aziraphale traced his fingers over the names in the book. Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Seth, Enoch, Zillah... He remembered them all very clearly. 

At first it was easy. Aziraphale had been so young and enthusiastic, and the humans were so easy to love. They were clever, beautiful, passionate, funny, and made in the image of God, just like him. And they lived for hundreds and hundreds of years, so they were easy to get to know. There were sad moments, of course. Aziraphale didn't witness the first murder, but he had held Eve in his arms and comforted her while she wept over the body of her son. It was hard to be in the presence of someone who was suffering so much, but it was good to feel that his presence was a comfort. It was good to encourage Eve to eat again and to walk in the sunshine. And then, years later, to watch her smile return as she dandled her babies and then later her grandbabies on her knees. Aziraphale hadn't been able to stop all sadness, but he could heal, he could help, he could love.

Aziraphale turned the to the next page and traced his fingers down the names on it. 

This was when the orders from heaven had started to change. He was no longer to sit with women in labor to ease their pains. He was no longer to heal the sick without asking permission. Aziraphale's memories of these times weren't so strong and bright anymore. He only had impressions. A few faces. A death that he hadn't been allowed to prevent; the widow looking at him with deep contempt. The inside of a tent. Children playing at his feet. A bearded man that he hated intensely for some reason that was lost to time. Aziraphale skimmed his finger over the familiar words of the Bible until he got to the flood. He suddenly had one startlingly clear memory. 

He remembered crying in heaven, because Gabriel had just informed him about the flood that was about to happen. Gabriel was berating him, and he was crying uncontrollably. 

Then another memory surfaced. Another time he had been crying in heaven. This time Michael was comforting him. He was lying in her arms, and she was stroking his forehead. Aziraphale looked off into the distance. Then he flipped back a few pages, and ran his finger over a column of names. Who begat who begat who begat who. He pulled a pencil out of a jar, sharpened it, and wrote a new name in between two lines on the page of begats. A woman's name. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Crowley found him, hours later, with a bunch of crumpled up papers arrayed on the desk, and a very recently annotated Bible in the middle of them. The Bible had been written on in pencil and two colors of pen, some of the paragraphs struck out, others written over and still others decorated with circles and angry underlines and arrows. Aziraphale had a look on his face that Crowley had never seen. His eyes were very still. Their normal sparkle was gone. His brow was smooth and his mouth was drawn down. 

Around the shop, it looked like a storm had come through. Tables were overturned. An entire bookshelf had been thrown to the floor. It was laying on top of a pile of what used to be its contents. Aziraphale's favorite wing back armchair was on its side on the floor. A small wooden chair had been split into pieces as if it had been slammed onto the floor again and again. The glass front of one cabinet had a spiderweb fracture in the front of it. 

"Busy afternoon, Angel?"

Aziraphale looked up at him and his eyes acquired a little brightness for an instant and then his face collapsed back into stony anger. 

"I've remembered it," said Aziraphale. "Some of it. Enough." His mouth was tight. 

Crowley tried to put a hand on the angel's shoulder, but Aziraphale shook him off with a shudder. The angel jabbed the pen in his hand into the right hand page of the open bible in front of him. It sunk in at least a finger's width and stood in place. The angel started to rock violently in his chair. Crowley stepped back in alarm.

"The worst thing, the absolute worst part of it is that I think they genuinely thought they were helping me." He slammed his fist onto the desk. "Those ignorant, self-absorbed, morally blind, cowardly, deceitful--" The angel was slamming his fist into the desk to punctuate each phrase. He started to curse like a wharf rat. The books atop the desk were threatening to tumble off, so Crowley expended a small miracle to save them from falling. 

As Aziraphale's stream of invective scorched his ears, Crowley was reassessing his decision to leave the angel to stew for the afternoon. He looked around the room at the amount of damage that Aziraphale had managed to do with the brute strength of a soft body unaccustomed to physical exertion. Crowley became acutely aware of the fact that his husband was no longer capable of performing a miracle in anger. If he had been, Soho would be a smoking crater. 

There was a pause in the incoherent cursing, so Crowley took his chance to speak.

"Er... Would it... Do you... Do you want to talk about it?"

The angel took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he slapped the desk with an open palm and looked up at Crowley. 

"Oh yes. You are going to hear about it. All of it. Because YOU wanted me to know this!" Aziraphale howled with rage. "Fucking Serpent! I was happy! We were happy!"

Crowley's eyes widened, and he stepped back. Azriaphale threw himself out of his chair and stalked toward the demon with his eyes blazing with anger. Crowley took off his sunglasses and met the angel's eyes as calmly as he could, but he stepped back again and again until he found himself pinned against a pillar. The angel was nose to nose with him, his hot breath filling the space between their lips, his eyes inescapable. Crowley refused to look away. There were no miraculous powers Aziraphale could call on in this state. The only thing that Crowley was frightened of was that if he looked away, he might lose the only thing in his life that was worth living for. And he wasn't going to do that. 

There was nothing to say to defend himself. The angel had agreed to everything that they'd done. Aziraphale had considered what Crowley had to say, and made up his own mind. Crowley had been so careful. There had been no whiff of coercion. They'd gone over their plan together a dozen times. He'd asked Aziraphale to confirm that he was sure just before he'd picked up the phone to call the human to make the rings. Crowley had been honest. He'd been so careful. And if the angel blamed him for whatever had happened this afternoon, then Crowley's world was over. Just like before. Kicked out of the Garden. Doomed to crawl away on his belly, the bitter ashen taste of loneliness in his mouth. 

They stood, eye to eye, for almost half a minute. Crowley didn't blink. 

Finally, Aziraphale's eyes softened. He stepped back. He turned his face away. A few tears started to leak out of his eyes, and he dabbed at them. Then he turned back to Crowley with love and sadness in his eyes. Crowley exhaled at last. The angel shook his head slowly as he spoke. 

"Why couldn't you have given us a few quiet years together before you had to make it so complicated?"

"I'm sorry," said Crowley. There was nothing else he could say. 

"I need to tell you some things," said Aziraphale. He put his hand over his mouth and massaged his lips and nose. Then he stuck his knuckles into his mouth and closed his eyes tightly. He opened his eyes and they were wet. He rubbed his palm back and forth over his lips as he spoke again. "I don't even-- Oh bollocks--" He took his hand away from his mouth and looked Crowley in the eyes. 

"Okay," said Crowley. "Should we sit on the sofa?" He poked his head around the corner to verify that the sofa was, indeed, still in one piece. "Only if you want. We can sit wherever you want." 

"Sofa is fine," said Aziraphale. "This conversation will require strong drink." He swept over to the bar, poured a tumbler of scotch from an already open bottle, knocked it back, refilled the glass, gulped that one down like a human drinking water on a hot day, and then set it down and filled a different glass. He handed the second glass to Crowley. He refilled his own and carried it and the heavy bottle over the sofa.

Crowley realized that he had no idea of what the angel's new alcohol tolerance might even be. He had a feeling he was about to find out. He folded his sunglasses up and put them on a table. He folded one of his own legs up onto the sofa and leaned back against the arm with careful casualness, as if he were relaxing at the end of a long evening. He took a sip of his scotch, then, realizing that a sip was inadequate to his needs, he tossed back his drink and held it out for the angel to refill. 

Aziraphale poured for them both. "I'm not sure where to even start."

"Start in the middle, then," said Crowley, sipping his second drink slowly and speaking calmly. "We'll get to everything in the end."

"I used to sleep, Crowley." 

Crowley nodded, very slowly. He sipped his whiskey. 

"Back in the early days. Back when the humans used to live for 900 years and I knew all of them by name. When I needed a break, I used to go up to heaven and sleep."

"Okay," said Crowley. He watched his angel struggle to find the words. He could hear himself breathing in the silence. 

"God stopped speaking to me after Eden. So all my orders came from heaven. From other angels."

Crowley nodded again. 

"They said the orders were from the Almighty. They always said that. But..."

Aziraphale trailed off. His eyes narrowed and his face hardened for a moment. He finished his glass. Crowley took it from him, ostensibly to pour him another. But he took his time about it, setting down both glasses with care onto a table, and pouring slowly while he listened. 

With both hands free, Aziraphale started to gesture. 

"It was so easy in Eden. It was so natural. I could just love them all, even the animals, and give them everything I wanted to give them. I protected them. I healed them. And then-- afterwards--after we left Eden-- I had such a hard time adjusting. It was only natural that I would want to make friends with the humans. Some of them lived for 900 years. They weren't so much younger than I was. And they were so clever. And beautiful. So amazingly beautiful." 

Crowley handed the angel his refilled glass. He drank his own very slowly, in the hopes that Aziraphale would follow suit. The angel gulped down what Crowley was sure was at least his sixth glass of scotch. 

"But there were times that I was supposed to allow them to suffer. When they murdered each other, when they birthed their babies. Crowley: the screams. There was so much blood and... They were my friends. I loved them. And sometimes I just..." 

The angel stared into the bottom of his glass, swirling the last droplet around and around, as if it were tea leaves that he was planning to read. 

"I used to sleep, Crowley. When it all got to be too much, I'd go up to heaven and take naps that would last for decades."

Aziraphale held out his empty glass towards Crowley. Crowley raised an eyebrow. The angel returned his stare with steely eyes. Crowley refilled the angel's glass, and Aziraphale held the glass in his hands and stared into the amber liquid. He talked to his whiskey, occasionally glancing up at Crowley to gauge his reactions. 

"Something would happen on earth and I'd get so upset, I'd be raging and crying, and I'd go up there and I'd talk to Michael. She'd listen and she'd rub my back or run her fingers through my hair, and I'd close my eyes and fall asleep. Then I would wake up, decades later, and I'd feel.... like my problem wasn't a problem anymore. Then I'd go back to Earth. And it would be easier."

The angel took a few sips, then he spoke again.

"I think part of me knew what was happening. But it made things easier, you see. I needed it to be easier. It was so hard to be what heaven required me to be. And it only ached a little, afterwards. It wasn't so bad. And I adjusted. I thought 'the parts they take can't be terribly important, because I'm fine without them.' "

"Go on," said Crowley. He grimaced a little. At his feet, the level in the bottle rose. Crowley continued to hold his half full glass but after a minute he realized that he didn't even need to pretend to sip from it. Aziraphale wasn't paying any attention. That was good. It gave him a minute to wall off part of his mind. 

"The last time I slept, it was after the flood."

"Okay," said Crowley. He controlled his voice very carefully. "But, you seemed resigned to accepting it when I spoke to you."

"I thought I was, Crowley. I thought I could handle it. I'd watched humans die before. I'd braced myself to be ready for it. But, Crowley, water rises so slowly. It doesn't happen all at once. It takes so long. Weeks. And at first it was people coming from low places, and I gave them directions to high ground. I helped them without magic, so heaven wouldn't notice. And then the places I sent them started to get cut off. And they were more and more frightened. And the waters were closing in around them. And even if I had tried to defy heaven at that point, my powers weren't strong enough to hold the waters back from all the little hills where they were stranded."

Aziraphale stopped talking to his whiskey and started sipping it, speaking one or two phrases in a tiny and sad voice, in between each sip.

"They were climbing trees, Crowley. Women and children were in trees. They tied the small children with ropes so they wouldn't fall out when their arms got tired of holding on. Where there were no trees, the men and women would be shivering in the water with the little ones up on their shoulders. And the waters rose so slowly."

The angel's hand was shaking around his nearly empty glass. He held it with both hands, and the shaking slowed a bit. 

"I was so stupid. You tried to tell me at the ark. Your words were in my head. I was even thinking about what you'd said. Part of me knew better than to trust heaven for help. I should have known by then. You're going to think that I'm an idiot."

"Aziraphale," said Crowley, "I promise that I will never think badly of you, no matter what you tell me." He held his face very carefully. He made sure that it was loving and calm as his words. 

The angel set his glass down on the floor, then reached over and picked up the bottle of whiskey. He seemed to be about to try to pour himself a fresh glass, but his hands weren't steady enough to do that, so instead, he held the bottle in both hands and slumped over it with rounded shoulders and talked to it. 

"I flew to heaven. I told them all that there was still time to save some of the humans, if we hurried. And Gabriel said, he said, not to worry, he said: 'You've done enough.' He said 'We'll send some people down to take care of everything.' He told me that it would all be well, and that I should rest. So I did. I did."

Aziraphale took a long pull straight from the bottle. "I laid down in heaven and I let Michael touch me to help me fall asleep. And as I was falling asleep, I told Michael where the humans were hiding."

Crowley whistled. But he said nothing. He kept his face still. He made sure that his eyes were full of love. Aziraphale shook his head back and forth in disbelief as he spoke. 

"And then I woke up. And they told me that a lot of time had passed and that the humans I'd saved were long dead, because humans only lived a handful of decades now. And there were new rules about miracles, and..."

Aziraphale drank a few gulps of the whiskey from the bottle. 

"I should have wondered why my memories were muddled, why I was so sore..."

Aziraphale took another pull from the bottle.

"But I wanted it to be true."

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. The angel's eyes were red rimmed and glossy. He was ugly drunk. Crowley took one of angel's hands into his own. With his other hand, he tried to pry the bottle away. But Aziraphale clung to it.

"But Angel, you didn't ask heaven for help ever again after that," said Crowley. He kept his voice very soft and encouraging. "That's good."

"Yes," said Aziraphale bitterly. "Was a good little angel. Did what I was told. Kept my head down. Never cried in front of them. Didn't go to heaven unless I had to." He wiped his eyes with the back of Crowley's hand. "Never slept again.... Till I slept with you."

"I'm so sorry, Aziraphale."

"Was lonely. But I did okay in the end. Had you. Had the books."

The angel managed to get the bottle to his mouth to take another loud and sloppy slurp from it. Quite a bit of it sloshed past his lips. He didn't bother to wipe his chin. He didn't seem to notice the dribbles. 

"Wasn't a good idea to get too close to any humans that was still alive. But then after they were dead, I could love them all I wanted. Kept the really interesting ones around for conversation. See?" Aziraphale used the nearly empty bottle to gesture at his entire library of books, and nearly toppled over. 

"Uh," said Crowley. He rubbed the angel's back. 

"Should have seen."

"Nothing would have been different if you had seen," said Crowley. 

"Could have fought heaven and--"

"And been destroyed. Or fell," said Crowley. "Naw. Sometimes you have to keep your head down. It's just the only way. You did the best anyone could have done." Crowley made another grab at the bottle, and this time the angel released it to him. Crowley set it on the floor, out of sight, around the corner of the sofa. 

"But it was wrong... And cowardly.... Was a coward." Aziraphale was starting to slur now.

"No," said Crowley. "Don't say those things." He slid himself around the angel and pulled him against his chest as he reclined against the arm of the sofa. Aziraphale lay with his back resting on Crowley's chest, staring at the ceiling. He was silent for a few minutes. Crowley ran his fingers through the angel's hair and waited for him to pass out. 

"Wanna know the firsh time I went to heaven crying?", said Aziraphale. His eyes were closed. "The firsh time was because I'd fallen in love wiff a human woman. So beautiful. Sparkly eyes. Big round arse. Hair all the way down to her arse..... She wooden have me. I courted her fifty five years. She threw me over for a goat herder that her dad told her to marry. Fifty five years. Ugly fellow. Big ugly black beard. Was so angry. So fus- fusta- fustated.... So sad..... sad.... hurt so much... Soes I ast'd Michael... ummm.... ast'ed Michael to.... to help me."

Aziraphale pulled Crowley's arms around him and held them close against his chest as he lolled his head back and forth slowly. 

"She wrapped her arms around me just like thisss.... Fell asleep in Michael's arms. So cozy. Ussss like thisss."

Crowley froze. 

"There there now," said the angel, in a quiet voice. "Hush hush hush.... All gonna be fine... won't hurt a bit... gonna take care of you... just rest now... soon be all better... just sleep..." 

And Aziraphale fell asleep. 


	22. Anger is a Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale puts himself back together.

Crowley lay very still under his angel on the sofa. He felt the slow breaths and the snuffles that the angel made. He put his nose into the angel's hair and smelled the scent of whiskey coming through the pores of the angel's skin. Aziraphale was so heavy on his chest. That must be why his chest ached so badly. Crowley's eyes ached too. He closed them and buried them in soft fluffy curls, and it didn't work. The curls under his eyes only grew damp and flat. He wrapped his arms tightly around his angel to comfort himself. He ran his fingers soothingly over the angel's damp temples. Then his hand froze. 

Michael had touched Aziraphale in this same way just before she'd handed him over to be maimed. 

Crowley gently extracted himself from underneath his angel, clambering up to balance on the back of the sofa, carefully rolling the angel onto his side as he pulled his limbs away. He descended to the floor quietly. He stuffed a pillow behind Aziraphale so that the angel couldn't roll onto his back, then pulled a blanket over him up to his chest. 

He tiptoed to the stairs and up them, then past the maze of bookshelves on the second floor to the little door that led to the tiny private quarters he shared with Aziraphale. He gently closed the door to the little flat. He walked down the short hall and entered the little bedroom and pulled the door softly behind him. Crowley pulled the covers of the bed back and crawled under them, pulling them over his head. Then he grabbed a pillow, stuffed it into his mouth, and screamed. 

It only took about twenty minutes before the soreness of Crowley's throat increased to the point that he was tasting blood with every scream. His eyes and his nose were aching and swollen. His breaths around the damp pillow were ragged and shallow, and as soon as he had enough breath, he would push another scream out. 

He didn't even need to release the emotions anymore. Now he was just punishing himself. Punishing himself for not being strong enough to storm heaven and kill Michael and whichever angels did her dirty work. Punishing himself for ever having wanted Aziraphale to know the truth. Punishing himself for thinking that knowing was always better than not knowing. Punishing himself for not having taken better care of his angel. His angel who was now full of rage and sadness instead of sweet gentleness. His angel who had spent thousands of years healing himself only to be broken open again by the insatiable curiosity of the one who was supposed to love him. His angel who was probably stuck in dreams where he was reliving the experience of being altered. Had it been painful? Or had those parts of him that were unwanted by heaven just faded away like mist, leaving behind little aching pockets of emptiness? 

Crowley sat up in the bed. He couldn't leave Aziraphale alone with his dreams. He got out of bed. He straightened the blankets and then rolled them up tightly and tucked the roll under his arm. He grabbed a dry pillow with his other hand. He left the little bedroom. As he passed a tiny closet in the hall, he pulled another blanket off the shelf and stuffed it under his other arm, on the side with the pillow. 

Downstairs, Crowley found his angel still asleep. He watched the angel's face. He listened to Aziraphale's breaths. The angel didn't sound distressed. Maybe he wasn't having nightmares after all. Best to wait and see. Crowley looked around at the destroyed shop. Should he fix it? No. Aziraphale should be involved in putting things right. When he was ready. They could do it together. 

Crowley laid out a blanket on the floor next to the sofa. He folded it over triple. Then he laid another blanket on top of that and did the same thing again, making six layers of fabric to protect his bony hips from the floor. He put the sheet and the other two blankets on top of his improvised pallet, then he pulled the covers back, dropped a pillow onto the side closest to Aziraphale's head, and then walked over and quietly turned off the lamp. Crowley squirmed his way into his narrow floor bed. There was some dim light coming from the main part of the shop. 

Crowley lay on his side looking up at his angel. Eventually, he let himself close his eyes. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was still dark when the sound of a groan woke Crowley up. 

"Crowley," said Aziraphale.

In an instant, Crowley rolled himself into a crouch. He leaned against the sofa next to the angel's head and looked at his face. Aziraphale's eyes were pinched shut in pain, and even in the dim light he looked green. 

"Is it okay if I take away the hangover?", asked Crowley. 

"Please. Yes."

Crowley put his hand onto the angel's forehead and felt it smooth itself under the warmth of his hand. Aziraphale exhaled. Then he opened eyes. He smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled. 

"You're so good to me," said Aziraphale. 

Crowley skittered back from the sofa. At any moment, the angel would remember what had happened last night and that Crowley had been the author of his misery. 

"I'm so sorry about last night," said the angel. "I'm sure I was very unpleasant company."

"No. You were fine. Just fine. No worries."

"Are you all right? Did I scare you last night? I'm so sorry if I did. I seem to have quite a bit more intensity to my emotions that I am used to having. I didn't mean to abuse you, dear boy. You don't deserve it."

"Nah. 'M fine," said Crowley. "How do you feel?"

"A bit worn out. A bit sore. Yesterday, I made a few unwise choices in the heat of passion. It's a little embarrassing, to be honest. I'm rather reluctant to look around the corner to see the damage I've wrought."

"You're not still angry, then?"

"Oh, I'm quite angry. I think what I'm feeling right now is also anger. It's just very different to the kind of anger I had yesterday."

The angel stood up and turned on the light. The clock on the wall showed 3 AM. 

"I hadn't realized that anger could have such nuance. Yesterday's anger was very hot. It was very... powerful. Yes. Powerful and addictive. Though the things it drove me to do were rather counterproductive, it was quite a heady experience." 

The angel walked over to where his favorite wing back armchair lay on its side. He bent down to pick it up and then winced. He put his hand onto his lower back and stood up slowly then made his way back to the sofa with a rueful look on his face. He sat down.

"Right, must have hurt my back." said Aziraphale. He steepled his fingers and then tapped his index fingers against each other. "Now this morning's anger is very interesting. Though I know that it's a bad idea, I keep finding my thoughts drifting to making plans for revenge. So with lust, rage, and this new sort of smoldering anger, that makes at least three new types of emotions since heaven cut me off. More to come I'm sure. I expect future ones will also be very engrossing. Of course, I will try to be more cognizant and not force you bear the brunt of them again."

"Oh Angel," said Crowley. He sat down next to Aziraphale. "Only you could be happy about being angry."

"I'm not entirely sure I am happy about it. My feelings about my feelings are decidedly mixed."

"Can I take care of your back?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

Crowley ran his hands over the angel's back. It wasn't necessary, to do the healing, but it felt nice. And Aziraphale was allowing him to do it. 

"I hate that I made you unhappy," said Crowley. "I shouldn't have pushed you to open this can of worms. I'm sorry." 

Aziraphale turned around and looked at him. He tilted his head. 

"You think I blame you for what happened these last few days?"

Crowley nodded, with wide eyes. "That's what you said yesterday." 

Aziraphale took his hands. 

"Darling," said Aziraphale. "My being cut off from heaven was an inevitability. And we don't even know for certain that our commitment ceremony had anything to do with the timing of Gabriel's visit. He's never before deigned to notice the events of my life. His timing was probably pure coincidence."

"But still, I wasn't letting you take your time," said Crowley. "You shouldn't have had to deal with this until you felt ready to handle it."

"Crowley, if it weren't for you pushing me past what I'm comfortable with, the place we are sitting would be inside of a radioactive crater. While you sometimes push me faster than I like, you have never once pushed me in a bad direction, and you have never harmed me. You have earned my trust."

Crowley stared at the angel's feet. Aziraphale kicked him gently in the shin. 

"Now," said the angel. "Cheer up. It's not so bad."

The angel stood up and marched over to his fallen armchair. He picked it up and set it back into its place. Then he spoke with some heartiness in his voice. 

"Well, I'd better get started. Have to open today. It's a Saturday and we are almost to December. The holiday shopping season is inexorable, even for me."

Aziraphale strode around the corner and beheld his bookshop. He sighed. 

"This is a far bigger mess than I remember making." Aziraphale shook his head. "One of the hazards of indulging rage. I will consider this a lesson learned." 

"Angel, you don't have to open today if you don't want to."

"I want to. It's fine if you don't wish to help. I made this mess, and I will take full responsibility for tidying it up."

"Aziraphale, I will always help you."

They tidied the bookshop together. They did it by hand, lifting up the tables and the fallen bookshelf. Aziraphale stacked the broken books next to his workbench. It took him hours to restore the bookshelf to the particular order he liked. Crowley sat on the floor and watched him with awe. The sky outside was just starting to turn grey. The angel was, well not happy, but not unhappy. He was busy. He was himself. Miraculously, after all he'd been through, he was still himself. Crowley got up and put an album on the old victrola. Pachelbel's Canon. The angel swayed his head back and forth appreciatively as he put his beloved books back up on the shelves. Sometimes he stopped, closed his eyes, and listened, a faint smile on his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago, a friend of a friend wrote a student play called "Anger is a Gift". I never met the playwright or saw the play, but I saw the playbill lying around, and I remember thinking: "How can anger be a gift?." It is a good question, and I thought about it for a long time back then, and I still think about it today. My answer has changed many times. 
> 
> That's the power of art. A play I never saw by a playwright I never met has affected my life.


	23. Flood of Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale restores his books and integrates the newly returned pieces of his personality as he welcomes some new immigrants to the UK. Crowley takes care of his angel in every possible way.

As Aziraphale opened for the day, Crowley settled himself in a wingback chair in the front of the shop and started working on his laptop. By end of day, he was hoping to find temporary renters for both sides of Aziraphale's house in Istanbul, hire a painter to restore the gilded ceilings in Aziraphale's neglected Paris home, and catch up on the accounting. Mostly, however, he was planning on keeping an eye on his angel. Crowley's main job for the day, as he saw it, was to be present for Azriaphale, to reduce the damage of any emotional maelstroms, and to diligently keep his thoughts to himself. 

"I simply don't see the need for you to stay here at all," said Aziraphale. "It's not as if I'm going to tear up the shop again. I've been running this business for over two hundred years. I don't need help."

"What if I just like the atmosphere?," said Crowley. "It's very conducive. And, by the way, I've got a lot of messages to get through." Crowley waved the angel away, put his legs up on the ottoman and pretended to turn his entire attention to his laptop while he kept an eye on Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale had set himself the task of repairing the books that he had broken when he overturned the bookshelf the day before. He started by going down to the basement and bringing up two wooden folding tables, which he covered with paper and set next to his workbench. He went back down two more times and came back up each time with his arms full of old fashioned flat irons. He stacked them all on the folding tables. Then he cleared his workbench and carefully adjusted the lights over it. He went upstairs to the flat and brought down cloth and paper, and set them on the side of the workbench. From drawers and shelves all over the shop, the angel pulled out scissors and blades and rulers and brushes and bone tools and even knitting needles. Then two wooden frames with thick wooden cylinders sticking out of them were stacked on top of each other on the back half of the angel's workbench. 

Crowley watched over Aziraphale while he worked. First the angel examined the books minutely and sorted them into piles, then he sorted those piles into piles again. He wrote notes and slipped them under the front covers of the books. Every once in a while, as he was sorting, his body would stiffen, and he would stare off into nothingness. In those moments, Crowley made little noises and shifted himself in his seat, and that usually sufficed to bring the angel back to himself. There was only one time that Crowley had needed to go so far as to stand up and yawn to get Aziraphale to snap out of his reverie. The angel finished his sorting and then he placed the books on the shelf above his work bench in what Crowley knew must be a very particular order. 

Crowley agreed to watch the shop when the angel went up to the flat to cook glue on the stove. After Aziraphale had been gone for two minutes, Crowley snuck upstairs and positioned himself on the outside of the door of the flat and listened to the clanking sounds within. When he guessed that the angel was nearly done, he retreated back downstairs and took up his position in the comfortable chair. The angel came back downstairs with a steaming pot that smelled like mulled cider, and he set it down on a thick piece of folded cloth at the edge of his work bench. 

All morning, Crowley watched the angel's back as he worked from left to right along the shelf. Aziraphale took each book down from the shelf, and, with swift precise motions, cut and peeled away damaged cloth spines. As he measured and cut cloth and paper and cardstock, a small pile of trimmings grew around his feet. The angel dabbed glue with his brushes and smoothed cloth and paper together with his little bone tools. He sometimes secured the books in one of the large wooden frames while he pressed his tools along their spines. When each book was done, he transferred it to one of his little folding tables, where he laid the knitting needles into the channels along the sides of its spine before placing flat irons on top of it. Whenever Crowley noticed a pause in the angel's movements, he would make some little noise or movement, and Aziraphale would startle and then resume his work. 

As the morning drew to a close, the repaired books slowly piled up on Aziraphale's folding tables. Crowley occasionally left his seat to follow would be customers around the shop and glower at them until they gave up and left. Aziraphale looked up each time the door bell rang. A glance at the corners of the angel's eyes told Crowley which few humans were allowed to range freely among the stacks. 

Just before noon, Crowley heard clanking noises and a stream of curses. He left the human that he was trailing and rounded the corner to find that the pot of glue had fallen to the floor and spilled. Crowley cleared the mess with an unthinking wave of his hand, and turned to go back to stalking the customer, but he suddenly found that the angel was standing in front of him, blocking his way. 

"I didn't ask you to do that!", said Aziraphale.

"Looked like a sticky mess, Angel. Really hard to clean without a miracle. It was my pleasure."

"I don't want your help. I can do things for myself!"

Five minutes later, Aziraphale was beating Crowley's chest with his fists as he sobbed about how much he missed his selfish miracles. This had the happy side effect of making the unwanted browser run out the door. 

"You can you do whatever selfish thing you want," Aziraphale wailed. "And I can't."

"But whenever I am with you," said Crowley, "I'll do whatever you ask of me. Just let me be an extension of you. Pretend that my hands are yours. It won't be the same, I know. But we'll both get used to it."

"And how long will you have that power?", said Aziraphale. "What will we do if Hell cuts you off?"

"Then you'll have to be the one to take care of me," said Crowley. He gave the angel a small apologetic smile. "I should probably get back to work. I've got to respond to some stupidly rich people who want to rent out one of your historic homes. Go on. Get back to your own work."

"I hardly can," said Aziraphale. "I'm out of weights and there's no more space."

"Then go and read something you enjoy," said Crowley. "Cheer yourself up." And Crowley returned to his chair and to his work. 

Just after one o'clock, Aziraphale pushed Crowley's feet aside and plopped himself onto the ottoman in a fit of excitement.

"I was just rereading Othello," said the angel, "And it all makes so much more sense now. I've seen the show dozens of times and I never quite understood why the king made the choices he did. But now that I understand rage, it's like an entirely different play!"

Crowley closed his laptop and smiled. In this moment, hearing the excitement in Aziraphale's voice, it all felt worth it.

"You know," said the angel. "I'd always wondered what it would be like to be a character in a play. It fascinated me how passionate they were. I wondered how it would be to feel things so strongly. And now, here I am. I could be one of those characters. It's as if the whole world used to be in pastels and now it's all pure bright colors!" 

Aziraphale babbled for twenty minutes and then ran off, chittering in excitement, and began pulling volumes off of shelves. Forty minutes after that, a wail of devastation filled the shop. 

The lone customer raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

"I got this," said Crowley, and the man sighed with relief and returned to his reading.

Crowley found his angel on the second floor, sitting on the floor with a stack of books between his legs and tears rolling down his cheeks. 

"I don't even have scripts for a hundreth of the plays I've seen. For most of them, all I have are my memories. And my memories are wrong! I was at every Dionysia, and almost none of the plays I saw were ever preserved. I'll never know what nuances I missed. They're all lost to time."

Crowley picked his angel up off the floor. Aziraphale was red faced and trembling with grief and anger. But he was keeping his body under control. It was a definite improvement. The angel buried his face in Crowley's shoulder and cried. Crowley rubbed his back until he stopped shaking. 

Aziraphale turned his face up to look at Crowley's. "I'm just finding out that everything I love in this world has only ever been half there for me," he said. "What am I even supposed to do?"

Crowley shrugged. "You could go into the flat and throw yourself onto the bed and scream into a pillow."

"That is a ridiculously inadequate response to the situation."

"It is," said Crowley. "It really is."

The bell above the shop door rang. 

Crowley walked over to the railing and peered down. Two women had entered the shop. One was an older woman wearing a sari and a bright orange head scarf. With her was a very young woman who was bare headed and wearing a long sleeved blouse with a scarf wrapped around her shoulders. She had colorful loose fitting trousers made of a thin material. The older woman had very thin jacket. They were both damp from the cold rain and the older woman looked almost too exhausted to stand.

"It will be fine, mother," said the young woman. She pointed at the chair Crowley had been using. "Look, there's a comfortable chair you can sit in. If we have to, I can find something cheap to buy. Go and sit. You can rest a while while I call our cousin for a rescue."

Crowley understood the young woman easily, but he was surprised to notice that Aziraphale wasn't looking to him for a translation. 

"I should bring them some tea," said Aziraphale. 

"It's fine," said Crowley. "I can do it. You should rest."

"No," said Aziraphale. "I could use the distraction."

They both went downstairs. The young woman was texting. Aziraphale, walking past her, handed her a business card. "This is our address," said the angel. "We are just off of Old Compton Street. Feel free to stay as long as you require. No need to buy anything." The young woman gave Aziraphale a very surprised look, and read the card and typed the address into her outgoing message. 

Crowley followed Aziraphale into the back room and watched the angel pull an already steaming teapot off of a wooden shelf. He put a cozy on it and set it on a tray. The angel pulled four cups, saucers and little plates out of his shelves. Aziraphale expected there to be cream in the mini-fridge, and there was. Crowley watched the angel rummage through the shelves next to the mini-fridge. The sugar bowl he found was probably legitimately there. But the tin of biscuits he pulled from the back almost certainly hadn't existed before he touched it. 

"Would you be a dear," said Aziraphale, "And bring out one of the small round tables and two of the folding chairs?"

"Hang on a minute," said Crowley. He put a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder and whispered into his ear. "Just so you know, when you talked to that girl, it wasn't English. You used her language."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "That's new. I'm used to being quite bad at speaking unfamiliar languages." He brought his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes. "They're from Bangladesh. Huh. Well I'll just tell them that I lived in Bangladesh as a child. That ought to work." 

Crowley brought the table and set it in front of the older woman. A moment later, Aziraphale appeared with the tray. 

"You look like you need a restorative cup of tea," said the angel, in Bengali. He set the tea on the table. 

The old woman's eyes widened. "This is an unexpected surprise," she said. "I do have a bit of jet lag. Thank you."

Crowley brought folding chairs for himself and Aziraphale. The young woman came over and sat on the ottoman. Aziraphale and the old woman exchanged pleasantries in Bengali. They quickly fell into an amiable conversation as they sipped their tea and crunched their way through the tin of biscuits. Crowley and the young woman appraised each other silently. They mutually decided that they disliked each other. The young woman ate a biscuit while she looked up information about Soho and the Old Compton Street area on her phone. Crowley sipped his plain tea and pretended not to understand the conversation. 

The old woman was very forthcoming. She explained that she and her daughter had flown in from Bangladesh only eighteen hours ago. They were trying to do some shopping ahead of the young woman's wedding next week. She was marrying a second cousin who lived here in the UK. The groom worked in London and was at the start of a very promising career. The young woman was named Sadiya and she was 21 years old and had just finished school. Sadiya said nothing as her mother talked about her. When Aziraphale asked her a question that forced her to look up from her phone and answer, it became clear that she was rather nervous about getting married and moving to the other side of the world. When Aziraphale tried to draw her out, the mother just talked over them both.

"But," said the old woman, "She will be better off here. Back at home the monsoon waters are rising higher every year. The river banks have been collapsing, and this year some of our neighbors had almost all of their property washed away. There is no future where we are. The weather is not what it used to be. I cannot be easy in my mind until all of the children are settled safely in places where I know they won't have to worry about the next cyclone or the next flood. We had to work very hard to get this match for Sadiya, but that is what we parents do. We lift our children up. We keep them safe."

The old woman asked Aziraphale a bunch of questions about getting around London, which he was delighted to answer, and about how applying for citizenship worked, which he couldn't answer at all. It didn't matter. Like most humans, the woman found Aziraphale to be completely charming. Sadiya, however, spotted the matching wedding bands on Aziraphale and Crowley's hands. Crowley watched her eyes tighten as they slid from one hand to the other. 

When their ride finally arrived, Crowley was happy to see the women out the door. He insisted on holding an umbrella over the old woman as she made her way to the car. The thin fabric of her clothes had just dried, and Crowley was sticking to a resolution he had made months ago to be kind to the humans that were in front of him. The old woman smirked at him and then looked at Aziraphale. 

"Tell your friend that this rain is nothing," the old woman said to Aziraphale. "You and I both know what a real rainstorm is like." 

As their car drove away, Crowley said: "I'd call that a success."

"What?"

"That," said Crowley. "Your first time taking care of humans since you started your new career."

"I never said I was starting a new career," said Aziraphale. "I never said or implied anything of the sort. I said I was going to take a few days to think about it. What I did just now was to simply be kind to some strangers."

"But it made you so happy. You should have seen yourself smiling. Aziraphale, you are made for this. All your miracles worked. Yesterday you couldn't warm one single cup of tea for yourself, but just now you materialized an entire pot of tea out of nowhere in order to comfort a human in distress."

"Must you?", said Aziraphale.

"I'm pushing again, aren't I?"

"Yes. You are."

The rest of the day was quiet. Aziraphale paced around the shop and chatted with the regulars who stopped by. When one of them inquired about the rumor that a mobster had threatened the shop, Crowley intervened and the man forgot his train of thought and wandered off upstairs to go find the Enlightenment section. 

When night fell, the angel didn't want to come to bed. He sat in the shop in his favorite chair, pretending to read. Finally, apropos of nothing, Aziraphale said:

"Helping two humans feel welcomed to London is very different from protecting billions of them from the destruction of the Earth."

"Gotta start somewhere," said Crowley. "You'll get the hang of things and you'll get more powerful as you go. We're on the right track."

Aziraphale shook his head sadly. "I wouldn't know how to begin. It's not like I've ever been able to directly oppose Heaven before. Think about the great flood. I knew it was coming and I didn't manage to save a single human being. I don't even know what Heaven and Hell are planning this time. And even if I did, I doubt I'd ever develop enough power to mount more than a token resistance. There are millions of angels and demons and only one of me."

Crowley raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"You aren't on your own," said Crowley. "And we did it last summer. Don't see why we can't do it again."

"But we two didn't do anything in the end. We didn't have any power. All we did was give the Antichrist a little information and encouragement. He and the other humans did everything."

"So? Maybe we just find the right humans again and give them the proper encouragement and they'll stop this one too."

"This is completely different. There isn't one individual vested with the power to oppose whatever it is that's coming. It's not that simple."

"Well," said Crowley, "You're smart. I mean, look at all these books. What are they for if not to help you figure out how to do this? You figured out the last one from books. You'll figure this one out too. And I'm pretty sure we've got a couple of decades before the final showdown. That ought to be more than enough time to figure it out and make a plan."

The angel shook his head. Then he sat in silence, staring at the wall behind Crowley. 

Crowley lay on the sofa for an hour, reading the news on his phone. He had half an idea that whatever the plan was, if Gabriel was involved, it wouldn't be subtle. Maybe it would come up in the news. But there were too many self-aggrandizing bastards manipulating the world for him to figure out which particular ones might be influenced by Heaven or Hell. Crowley gave up. He turned off his phone and watched Aziraphale pretend to read. 

"Why do you look at me like that?", said Aziraphale.

"Like what?"

"I always get the impression that you are just waiting for me to say something. Like you expect that I'm going to have the answers for all of your endless questions. Like you can't act unless I give you permission."

"Yeah," said the demon. He stared at his empty hands. "True. I do look at you like that." 

"Why?"

Crowley looked up at his angel. He tilted his head. 

"Because you are the answer to my questions," said Crowley. "Nothing is worth doing without you. And I can do anything if it is for you."

They sat for a while longer, lost in thought. Finally, Aziraphale closed his book. 

"It's late," said Aziraphale. "You should go to bed."

"Naw," said Crowley. "Not sleepy yet."

"Are you going to sit up with me all night?"

"Yep."

"Are you still worried that I can't be left alone?"

"Yep."

"But you need sleep."

"Can skip for a few nights," said Crowley. "Not a big deal."

"I insist that you go to bed."

"Then take me to bed. I won't go without you."

"But I won't sleep," said Aziraphale.

"I can rock you to sleep," said Crowley. He got up off the couch. He came over to the angel's chair and sat in his lap, straddling him. He kissed the angel on the lips and took his hands and pulled them onto his own waist. "Let me take care of you," he said. He dragged Aziraphale's hands down the sides of his body until they rested on the bones of his pelvis. "These hips can make you forget all your troubles." 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale was going to be alright. Crowley was sure of it. All day, in between the outbursts of anger and grief, Crowley had watched the lost parts of Aziraphale's ancient personality awkwardly integrate themselves into the person he had become. It was strange, to have known Aziraphale for so many thousands of years, and to be meeting parts of him for the first time. But, though it was difficult, it was exciting. There was already a new steel in the angel's eye, a new quickness about his movements, a greater depth to his emotions. Aziraphale was still himself: thoughtful, witty, loving, sarcastic. But now he was getting more confident, more lively. 

He was especially lively now. Lively and lovely as he writhed underneath Crowley and moaned in pleasure with every twist of Crowley's hips. Crowley had laid his angel on his back at the edge of the bed and he was doing his best to give him every ounce of physical pleasure that his body was capable of experiencing.

It wasn't easy. The angel couldn't figure out how to move his body to meet Crowley's thrusts. His legs were wrapped around behind Crowley's back, but they were stiff and useless and Crowley had to fight them to move. Aziraphale was grabbing at Crowley's belly and digging his nails in as he filled the air with mewling cries. He was arching his back and pushing at the air above his body, instinctively looking for the friction that would bring him over the finish. Crowley made hushing noises. He bent over his angel and balanced on one arm and ran gentle fingers through the angel's damp hair as Aziraphale tossed his head back and forth on the bed. Crowley moved his hips into a slow holding pattern. He wasn't ready to be done so soon. Crowley wanted to savor this moment. 

The last time he had penetrated the angel had been over two weeks ago. Aziraphale had lain on his back and opened his legs and looked up at him with wide and trusting eyes. The angel had touched his arms and shoulders so gently, had held so still. He had taken slow deep breaths to keep his body loose and open while Crowley pushed into him. When Crowley had hesitated to move, Aziraphale had reached up to touch his cheek and told him not to worry, that there was plenty of lubrication, and that he was quite comfortable, and that Crowley could go as fast as he liked. And throughout it all, the angel had glowed with such a quiet and patient love. 

But tonight Aziraphale was impatient. The angel was now clawing furiously at Crowley's shoulders and back, trying to pull him down, trying to bring their bodies into contact, absolutely heedless of the red marks he was leaving. And then his mouth found Crowley's wrist next to his head and he started biting it to release some of the tension in his body. The angel had needs. When he released Crowley's wrist, the sounds from his mouth had transformed from pleasure sounds into anxious and urgent begging noises. Aziraphale frowned and tried to shake Crowley's gentle hand out of his hair with impatient motions of his head. Then the angel had an intelligent thought and began to slide his hand down his own body. Crowley caught Aziraphale's hand, and he balanced on one arm as he brought the angel's knuckles up to brush his lips. 

"No need for that, my love," said Crowley. "I've got you covered. I will take care of your every need."

And he did.


	24. Defender of Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is defeated by pastry and he can no longer resist the call of destiny.

It might have been the exhausting nature of the previous night's activities that was to blame for what happened on Sunday morning. 

Charlotte the solicitor rang Aziraphale's door buzzer again. Crowley slept like the dead. Aziraphale was no more able to sleep through her leaning on the buzzer than he had been two days before, so, seething with resentment, he wrapped a dressing gown around himself, and tottered downstairs to tell Charlotte off. 

"Really, dear lady," said Aziraphale. "I think I was very clear the other day that your help is not wanted."

"And I made it clear that I'm not leaving you alone until you convince me that you have a safety plan. Also, I have coffee and sfogliatelle. So let me in."

She thrust a tray of coffees into the hands of the unsteady angel, and easily pushed her way past him into the shop. She had already reached the sitting area before Aziraphale managed to get the door locked.

"I'm starting to become very annoyed at you," said the angel, as he made his way to the back of the shop. He was realizing that he was actually achy and sore in quite a few ways that he wasn't used to, and he wasn't sure why his healing miracle wasn't working. This same miracle had worked the night before. Otherwise he would never been able to let Crowley fuck him until almost sunrise. "I do not answer to you, and I assure you that I am quite capable of taking care of myself." 

Charlotte raised an eyebrow as he shuffled around the corner into the sitting area and then she handed him a wax paper wrapped pastry the size of his hand. Aziraphale eyed the layers of brown crispy pastry-- they were just a bit thicker than filo dough, and so crunchy. The ridges were dusted with powdered sugar. The pastry resembled a hard shelled clam if the layers of pastry were the concentric ridges of the shell. Through a place where the layers had separated, Aziraphale could see the gleam of the golden filling. He smelled lemon zest and cinnamon and he could well imagine the rich ricotta and egg custard that would carry those flavors to his waiting tongue. 

"I'm sure that you are completely mistaken in what you think you understand." said Aziraphale. 

He sat down on his chair, carefully. He bit into the crispy layers and felt them snap against his lips as his teeth sank into the thick soft filling. The taste of the filling was such a symphony that he needed to close his eyes to appreciate it. The texture of the filling was so smooth. He found himself recalling how it felt to slide into smooth slick warm heat of his lover. His mind drifted towards the many pleasures of the night before, and he forgot to orient the pastry correctly when he took his next bite, and the layers of the pastry popped and propelled powdered sugar and sharp flakes all over his face. 

"We have everything completely under control here," said Aziraphale. He winced as he leaned forward to grab a paper napkin. Charlotte handed it to him. As he mopped his face, he tried for the miraculous healing again. Just in case. It didn't work. He nearly cursed aloud. Too late, he realized that his face was showing his feelings.

"I don't believe you," said Charlotte. "You look like hell."

Well, subterfuge was failing, so Aziraphale tried honesty. To a degree. 

"If you must know, we were up late last night. Celebrating. We are quite confident that we won't be seeing Gabriel again. So, as you can see, your help isn't needed."

"How do you know Gabriel?", asked Charlotte.

"Well-- Uh-- "

"Does he do the violence himself or does he have people who do that for him?"

"Well usually Sandelford is the one who actually-- Er--"

"I see," said Charlotte.

"It's not actually--"

"So, do you think this Sandelford will try to shoot you or is he more of a knife between the ribs kind of guy?"

"Neither!", said Aziraphale. "I'm not talking to you."

"Who are you talking to then?"

"Nobody. Who would I talk to? It's just me and Crowley and we will handle it when the time comes."

"How do you plan to handle an assassin?" 

"They won't send assassins!," said Aziraphale, in exasperation. "They plan to just let us die with the humans when they destroy the Earth."

"I think I'm missing a bit of context," said Charlotte. "Who are these people and exactly how do they plan to 'destroy the Earth'?"

"How should I know? Plague, war, nuclear armageddon? It hardly matters. We will oppose it of course, but we aren't likely to get lucky again. So I intend to enjoy what's left of my immortal life with my demon husband, having as much sex as I possibly can. And, as soon as I can figure out how to erase your memory, I will be getting back to that."

Aziraphale snapped his fingers. 

"Damn it," he said. "Pardon me, I need to get Crowley."

"Your 'demon husband'?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale.

"Is he supposed to 'erase my memory'?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. He eased himself back onto his feet and started to shuffle toward the stairs. 

"You don't seem to be much of a demon yourself," said Charlotte. "You seem pretty much like a normal middle aged man who had a bit too much fun last night."

Aziraphale turned on her in fury. 

"If you must know, I'm an angel."

Charlotte snorted. 

"Pity your angelic healing powers don't seem to be working today," she said.

"No, they don't," said Aziraphale. His voice was shaking. "Nor can I make you leave or forget your train of thought. I'm finding it very annoying."

"Hmmmm," said Charlotte. "So you're an angel that can't heal people or do magic."

"At the moment," said Aziraphale. He set his jaw. He turned around in front of the base of the stairs. "Now wait here. We'll take care of everything soon." He shouted up the stairs. "Crowley!"

"How do you know you are actually an angel, then?"

Aziraphale took a step toward her. He'd never before been angry at a human being. His fists had balled up without him even noticing. He had to suppress his urge to slug her in the face. 

"Crowley!", he yelled.

"I think that you need help, Mr. Fell. I think you are under a lot of stress right now, and that's to be expected."

She put her hands on him. She grabbed him by both wrists. A human was touching him and trying to control him. Aziraphale felt his body fill with something, some new flavor of anger-energy, and he had a strange thought that perhaps a defensive miracle might work. He wanted to throw her away from him bodily, but he couldn't seem to get that miracle to work as he wanted it to, so at last he simply pushed outward in every direction in the hopes that it would push her off. 

There was a great whoosh of air behind him and the human let go of his wrists and fell backward onto the floor. 

"Fuuuuck...", she said. She was looking up behind him at the staircase. 

Aziraphale turned to see if Crowley was there, and he barked his wing on the wall. He turned back to the terrified human who was scooting away from him on her backside. His anger disappeared. Some defender of humanity he was, terrifying this poor human by unfurling his wings in front of her. 

"Right," said Aziraphale. "It's all going to be just fine. In a few minutes, all this will be gone from your memory, and you'll just remember sharing a nice pastry with your good friend Mr. Fell." He yelled up the stairs again. "Crowley! Wake up! I need your help down here!"

"No," said Charlotte. "Don't."

"I promise, we won't harm you in the least," said Aziraphale. "Theoretically, I'm now a defender of humanity. I don't think I could harm you if I wanted to. I'm so sorry about the wings. This never has happened before. I'm still getting used to the new regime. I'll put them away now."

"Angel," said Charlotte. 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "That's me." He pulled his wings back into the ether and wrapped his torn up dressing gown around himself with as much dignity as he could manage. 

"Your husband is a demon and he's going to wipe my memories?"

"That is the plan, yes," said Aziraphale. "CROWLEY!"

"And then somebody is going to come and destroy the whole Earth?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "But, not to worry, it won't be for years yet. CROWLEY! I need help down here!"

"How many years?!" said Charlotte. "Can't we do anything to stop it?

"That will be my concern," Aziraphale. "CROWLEY!" 

"Right here, Angel," said a voice from the top of the stairs. 

Charlotte was hysterical. "I don't want my memories erased!"

"Don't worry, my dear," said Aziraphale. 

"Of course I'm worried!" said Charlotte. "Someone is coming to destroy the world and you just said you're going to spend the next few years fucking instead of figuring out how to stop it!"

"What the heaven did you do to your clothes?", said Crowley.

Aziraphale turned red. 

"Wings," he muttered. 

"Why?" said Crowley.

"I was distracted. I said a few ill considered things and then she grabbed me and I just--"

"Distracted?", said Crowley. 

Charlotte grabbed at one of Aziraphale's hands. She was still on the floor. She was on her knees with one hand grabbing his and the other buried in his tattered dressing gown. She looked up at him with an amazing amount of fortitude, for a human. 

"You are a defender of humanity," said Charlotte. "You have to stop them. You can't give up without even trying."

"Can you please fix her?", said Aziraphale.

"In a minute," said Crowley. "First I want to know what 'distracted' you so much that you showed your wings to a random human."

"NOT a random human," said Charlotte. "Your friend for seventeen years!"

"I was still sore from last night," said Aziraphale. 

"Oh Angel, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize I was being too rough."

"No," said Aziraphale. "It felt great at the time, I just forgot to ask you to-"

"Isn't the impending destruction of the world more important than your sex life?", said Charlotte. "You have to DO something!"

Aziraphale turned and looked down at her. 

"And what, dear lady, do you expect me to do to stop a future apocalypse we know nothing about? Any ideas? No? Then best you return to your human life and leave this to us."

Charlotte drew her hands away from Aziraphale. She fixed her eye on him as she stood up. 

"I don't want to forget and then return to my regular life and then one day watch helplessly while the Earth is destroyed," said Charlotte. "You clearly don't have any ideas either. But we can figure it out. I'm good at figuring things out. I want to help."

Aziraphale gave her a kind look. 

"Charlotte, you are an exceptionally brave human. But there isn't much a human can do in the face of an apocalypse. Isn't it better that you enjoy the years you have left in peace? It could be decades before it happens. You might not even live to see it."

"So what?," said Charlotte. "Why do you get to be the only defender of humanity? There has to be something I can do."

"Right," said Aziraphale. "Crowley, please take care of this woman."

Crowley looked Charlotte over from head to foot. He walked around behind her and smirked. Then he came around and stood in front of her again. He stuck his hand out.

"Hello," said Crowley. "My name is Crowley. I'm a demon. I see you've met my husband Aziraphale. We are six thousand year old occult beings who, just last summer, joined up with some humans to avert nuclear armageddon. We need some more humans to help us avert the next armageddon. Would you like to join our team?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way to pronounce sfogliatelle is "schveee ahh dell ah." If you find yourself in a really good Italian bakery (you'll know because there will be a big line of people crowding the shop, and the folks behind the counter will be yelling at each other in Italian) I recommend you get some.


	25. The First Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four vignettes from the first year of Aziraphale and Crowley's new peace venture.

**Winter:**

It was hours after dark when Crowley got home. Crowley closed the door of the shop. He locked it by hand. He beat the flakes of snow off of his overcoat before he hung it up on the coat rack. Then he took off his leather gloves and put them in the pockets. He unwound his scarf and hung it up. 

"Angel?," he called. "I said I was home. Are you still down here?"

"Sorry," said Aziraphale. "Didn't hear you the first time."

Crowley rounded the corner to find Aziraphale sitting at his desk with a pile of papers and books on his left side and a smaller pile of papers on his right side. He was bent over a thick black binder that had a solid five centimeters of paper in it. He smiled and leaned back in his chair as Crowley came in and he accepted a kiss.

"Your lips are freezing."

" 'Cause it's literally freezing out there," said Crowley. "But you're nice and warm." Crowley draped himself over his angel, resting his chin on Aziraphale's head. "Wot's that?"

"This one?," said Aziraphale. He flipped backward through a few dozen pages till he came to a title page. "Ah yes: 'Economic Globalization and its Impacts on the Expected Future Migration Patterns of Climate Refugees' ." 

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale flipped forward through the stack of papers. 

"And this next one: 'Deep Cultural Prerequisites to Lasting Peace: Diversity with Equality as a Foundational Value'," said Aziraphale.

"Not exactly relaxing bedtime reading is it?"

"Charlotte dropped this lot off three days ago, and I'm trying to get through it all before next week," said Aziraphale.

"Next week?"

"Charlotte is sending me to Oxford on Wednesday next to meet with a professor of human rights and international law. I'm trying to ensure that I won't appear to be an idiot when I meet the woman. There's a lot to know. How was your night?"

"Went well," said Crowley. "They are both very minor demons, just like we thought, but they're ours now. Not sure how much use they'll be, but a vast spy network isn't built in a day." 

"How did you convince them?"

"Mostly, they convinced themselves. They're a bit like us. They met on earth during the Second World War. They've got this little island that they visit every year on their anniversary. They don't want their romantic spot destroyed."

"Should I ask what demons do on a romantic date?"

"Best if you don't," said Crowley. He ran his hands along the backs of Aziraphale's arms. "Are you almost done for the night?"

Aziraphale glanced up at the clock on the wall. "My goodness," he said. 

"S'okay if you need more time. I can find something to do."

"No," said Aziraphale. "That way lies madness. We've agreed to nine o'clock, and nine o'clock it shall be." He put a scrap of paper on top of his page to serve as a bookmark and he closed the heavy binder. "Now then. I should think that you'll need warming up."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Spring: **

Lauren, Holly and Ryan weren't watching Hannah's presentation, they were watching the two very important guests at the back of the table. The thin woman, a solicitor named Charlotte Reed, was wearing an expensive black suit, her salt and pepper hair in a sensible bob. Her face was completely still. The only sign of life from her was the quiet click of her keyboard as she made notes. The man, whose name they didn't even know, was unreadable too. Judging by his casual clothes, he was either the talent or the money. He wore dark glasses that wrapped around on the sides, so his eyes couldn't be seen. He was sprawled in his chair. He had one arm crossed in front of his body. He had his other hand under his chin, and he was absently rubbing the underside of his chin with his thumb as he watched the talk wrap up. 

"To conclude," Hannah said, "We have identified key organizations whose business practices have had an outsized negative impact on communities in developing nations and at home, we have begun to categorize and quantify these impacts, we have created and tested educational material to bring this information to the public, and we have outlined a plan for creating public pressure on each of the companies."

The lights came up. 

"Humph," said Charlotte Reed, "What does your legal department have to say about your plans?"

"Well," said Hannah, "At this stage..."

"You don't have a legal department, it's obvious," said Reed. "And, if I had to guess, you all called in sick to your day jobs to make this meeting."

Lauren piped up, "We are in the process of hiring legal talent."

The man in the glasses finally spoke up. "Good research you did there. Kudos to you, journalist girl. You found some really vile companies. The math is spot on, too. The art you showed us is not bad. But your plans are rubbish. You don't know your enemies at all. They'll destroy you."

"Someone has to try!", said Ryan. "Even if we fail, we have to at least try to stand up to companies that cause poverty and pollution and war as a part of their regular business practices. Let them try to destroy us. At least we go down fighting for what we believe in."

Lauren glared at Ryan as she spoke. "We intend to hire a strategist."

"But you don't have the money," said glasses. 

"Yes," said Hannah. "What we need at this point is an investor who believes in our cause."

Glasses gave an enigmatic smile as he spoke. 

"You need an Angel investor." 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

**Summer:**

It was a strange job interview to be sure. The interviewer wanted to meet him in a book shop in Soho. When Craig got there, the place looked more like a very old library than a shop, with carefully preserved antique books filling almost every shelf, and a few sofas and chairs scattered around. There were a few tables with people sitting at them and working on computers and phones. It was right in the middle of a thriving commercial district, but there didn't seem to be anyone at the till, or even any indication that selling or buying ever took place in the shop. Whatever it had been, it looked like it must be a shared work space now. 

Craig texted when he arrived, and a man in stylish black clothes and wearing wrap around sunglasses came out of a back room. 

"Hi. You Craig? I'm Anthony," said the man. "I'll be interviewing you. Come on upstairs." Anthony made a half grunt as he walked by a woman in a suit who had claimed an sofa for herself near the front door. 

"I'll watch the door," she said to Anthony. It was a strange thing to say, but Craig supposed that he mustn't be the only person who was being interviewed today. 

The second floor had an enormous rotunda with an elaborate metal railing around the it. The staircase to the second floor had the same elaborate metal railing and it had wooden treads that were worn into half-moon shapes in the centers. Craig followed Anthony up the stairs.

"Wow," said Craig. "This is quite a space. Does your organization rent space here?"

"We own the building," said Anthony. "My husband and I." They walked past a hole in the brick wall of the building. It was covered with plastic, and the sounds of construction rang out from the the other side. "Sorry 'bout that," said Anthony. "We are adding an annex." They passed by a few book shelves full of archival books. When they got to the other side, the construction sounds were somewhat attenuated. They reached a sitting area that was surrounded by bookshelves on three sides. "You can sit over there," said Anthony. He gestured at one of three leather chairs that were grouped around a little coffee table. 

Craig settled himself into the chair and waited.

"Now," said Anthony, "Before we talk, you sign this non-disclosure agreement." He handed over a document written on a piece of thick parchment paper. 

Craig took the piece of paper and read it. It was the strangest non-disclosure agreement he had ever seen. It wasn't just that he couldn't talk about the details of the interview outside of the building, it also specified that he wasn't to speak about the "physical abnormalities or unusual features" of anyone he met or heard about today. Also, it said that if he decided to not take the job, he agreed to completely forget everything he heard, saw, and did in the building today. 

Craig was feeling more than a bit nervous. The salary range had seemed a bit too good to be true for the type of work that he was potentially being hired to do. As a post doctoral researcher in public policy, Craig had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to need to be willing to either accept an academic salary or to uproot his family-- to Geneva or Nairobi or, perhaps, to the States. But here was an opportunity to join a brand new think tank, a think tank right near home, that would pay enough to support the second child that he and his wife were expecting. So, despite the oddness of the agreement, he signed. After he signed it, the interviewer made a funny drawing below his signature. Then the interviewer took the paper, tucked it into a leather folder, and tucked the folder next to him in his chair.

"Right," said Anthony. "Charlotte liked you over the phone, and your references checked out. So now you have to get past me."

"Okay," said Craig. "What do you want to know?"

"First question," said Anthony. "How do you get several billion humans to all start to think of themselves as being on the same team?"

"You serious?"

"Yeah I'm serious. You did your doctorate in Peace Studies, right? This is what we want you for."

"I think," said Craig, "That it depends on what kind of 'team' you are talking about, and what the people have in common to begin with. Now, the nation of India might be a useful case study here."

The interview only got stranger from there. Craig found himself explaining very basic concepts, and then answering what seemed like philosophical questions. Anthony asked him what made humans think war was glorious, and what kinds of things motivated humans to disarm. He asked why sexuality was sometimes linked to violence and sometimes to peacefulness. He asked whether democracy was necessary for peace. He always called people "humans." He was very intense. He leaned forward in his chair, his whole body coiled with tension. As he listened, his hands kept moving as if everything Craig said was setting off a torrent of ideas or memories. He kept stopping Craig to ask about the meaning of phrases. "External external peace", "untransformed conflict", "transitional justice." Anthony seemed to know a lot about ancient history, and whenever he fished for an analogy, it was from the politics and religions of long dead empires. When Craig brought up Manichaeism and how it still contributed to dualistic apocalyptic thinking in modern people, Anthony started talking about the spread of that religion in the ancient world. His knowledge was impressively detailed. 

Just when things seemed to be going well, Anthony suddenly checked his watch, stood up and said: "Right. You pass." As Anthony took Craig back downstairs, he made a very strange, and obviously well rehearsed, speech. 

"I'll have you to talk to some humans who work here," said Anthony. "They'll give you some important details about the work environment. Whether or not you choose to take the job, you won't tell anyone outside of this building about what they tell you today. You make your decision one way or the other before you walk out the front door. If you decide to stay, you find me, you look me in the eyes, you tell me you want the job, we shake hands, and you're hired. If you walk out without giving me a decision, then your answer is 'No', and you won't ever come back. Got it?"

"Got it," said Craig. 

Anthony led the way back downstairs. He shouted at two people who were sitting on a sofa with their feet on a table and computers in their laps. "Oi! Hannah! Erik! Need you to talk to a potential new recruit." 

Hannah and Erik seemed like normal people. They were in their early or mid twenties and seemed earnest but a little scatter brained. They led him to a small windowless room on the first floor, and they shut a thin door that had clearly just been installed. The room seemed to almost be a storage closet. It was filled with several centuries worth of tchotchkes. There were three little wooden chairs, and a little miniature kitchen with a tiny fridge and a hot plate and a kettle. Craig declined the offer of tea and he sat down on one of the little chairs. 

"Sorry about this," said Erik. He gestured at the cramped room. "This is actually the only enclosed space in the whole building except for the bosses' private flat. And nobody but Charlotte is allowed in there. But they're building offices in the new annex."

"The boss is kind of intense, isn't he?" said Craig.

"Both of them are odd," said Erik. "I mean, they're pretty good to work for, but it's not like they are normal people, and they don't hide it very well."

"What do you mean, 'not like normal people'," said Craig. "I mean, obviously they're gay, right? And they live in this old commercial building? And they are rich enough to start a think tank."

"No," said Erik, "I mean, they aren't human. They are supernatural entities. Nice ones. But still. Not human." 

"But we like them," said Hannah. "You get used to it."

"Very funny," said Craig. But the other two people looked deadly serious. 

"And they think the whole Earth is in danger," said Erik. "They think that occult forces are influencing powerful people to do things that are going to bring about the end times." 

"That's not as far fetched as I wish it was," said Craig.

"And," said Erik, "They want to figure out how to organize regular people to fight against the destruction of the Earth."

"Yeah," said Hannah. "And me and Erik, our job is to identify and digitally infiltrate organizations that are actually working to promote armageddon."

"And are you finding a lot of them?", said Craig. 

"Lots of them," said Hannah. "Some of them are really crap businesses and governments that don't care if they destroy the earth as long as they can get more power, and some of them are actually are little militias and religious cults that actually use those phrases 'end times' and 'armageddon' and 'final battle' and all that. It's strange how so many people all over the world have the same crazy way of thinking." 

"DMA syndrome," said Craig. The other people looked confused. "Dualism-Manichaeism-Armageddon syndrome. It's that rigid Good versus Evil thinking that locks us into zero-sum struggles and prevents us from transcending violence." They nodded. 

"Yeah," said Erik. "That is what the bosses don't like. They are against that."

"Well," said Craig. "This little think tank seems like a pretty interesting place to work."

"It is a little bizarre," said Erik, "But, once you get used to the bosses, it's no worse than anywhere else I've worked. And there are lots of side benefits. Like flexible hours. And you never get sick." 

"But we are serious about them not being human," said Hannah. "As far as we can tell, one of them is actually an angel. Like with wings and healing powers. His name is Aziraphale, but we call him the Wing Commander. The reason you don't get to meet him until after you are hired is because everyone likes him too much." 

"That's why his husband has to run the office," said Erik. "People have a hard time saying 'no' to the Wing Commander. Except Charlotte. But for everyone else, it's like you feel compelled to please him and you want to be around him all the time. You met the husband. His name is Crowley. We don't know what he is. But you can treat him pretty much like a regular person." 

"But if you decide you want to take the job" said Hannah, "Crowley will take off his glasses and you'll see his eyes, and you will know that he's not a human. And if you still want to work here, then you're hired."

"So this is what that crazy non-disclosure is all about?", said Craig.

"Yeah," said Eric, "And the non-disclosure is REAL. Like, if you set foot outside this building and you try to talk about this stuff we're telling you, your mouth won't make the words. We can't even do it. And if you decide not to take the job, you'll totally forget that you ever came here. It's happened before."

"Okay," said Craig. He decided that, for the sake of continuing the conversation, he should accept the premise that these people were offering him. "The bosses are not human. What else do I need to know about them?"

"The only other thing you need to know about the bosses," said Hannah. "Is that you should never sneak up on them. Always make a lot of noise when you are coming around corners."

"Yeah," said Erik, "Or you will get an eyeful. They treat this whole building like it's their home. Whenever they think that nobody is looking they start touching each other's faces and running their hands through each other's hair and basically hanging all over each other. And that's if you are lucky. Sometimes they'll have a snog in the middle of the day. Tell them about the cake, Hannah."

"So," said Hannah, "Two weeks ago at the Friday social, the Wing Commander is eating a slice of cake and Crowley is sort of half-draped over his shoulders, and the Wing Commander says 'this is excellent, you should try it', and then they go for this really deep kiss-- like they're really sucking each other's faces. And then, Wing Commander goes back to eating his cake and he's all like 'thanks', and then he never gives Crowley any of the cake."

"I think 'come over here and taste this' is their code for 'lets have a ridiculous snog in public,'" said Erik. "They've done it more than once."

"True story," said Hannah. "Cause it isn't about the food. Crowley lives on black coffee and alcohol. I've never actually seen him eat anything." 

"He's the one I met, right?", said Craig.

"Yeah," said Erik, "But, he's definitely not a vampire, because he is out in the sun all the time."

"No one ever said that he was, Erik. That was just your stupid theory."

"Yeah, but he's, um, a little scary looking. We don't have a nickname for him."

"Nobody actually knows what he is," said Hannah. "And he won't say. He just says that Wing Commander is an angel and he is a creature that loves an angel."

"But Wing Commander," said Erik, "You need to know-- we are serious about what we say about him. He has actual wings. Literally. Like huge ones. And he can fly and everything."

"If you stay late at night, sometimes you get to see them," said Hannah.

"Yeah, he doesn't let you touch them, but they are phenomenal," said Erik. 

"Like white, and huge and they're really alive. They move almost like they were giant hands."

"And the only one that's allowed to touch them is Crowley."

"But he only touches them when he thinks no one is looking, so we know that's sort of like really intimate or something."

"Yeah, so that might be like just as bad as the snogging, but we don't know for sure," said Erik. "Oh yeah, and they never use the toilet. Like when Hannah joined, they didn't even have a toilet, and they had to install them. But she could tell they'd never thought of it. It's creepy."

"Oh," said Hannah, "And the other thing is that the two of them have this telepathy thing. There have been dozens of incidents. They are in constant communication. You can be talking to one of them, and the other one comes in the front door and picks up the conversation as if they'd been there the whole time. It is creepy."

"Yeah," said Erik, "And they can talk to each other with just their eyes, from across the room. Not like regular couples. Like whole conversations are flying through the air over our heads, and they don't even bother to talk out loud. Like I've seen them have a whole argument with just their eyes."

"And they can do weird magic stuff. Seriously. If you are here long enough, you'll catch them at it. Usually it happens at night."

"Yeah, when they get tired, they get sloppy." 

"Yeah, like Crowley will lock the door by waving at it across the room."

"And the weird sign at the bottom of Crowley's sofa."

"It's supposed to have his title, but like, his title changes depending on his mood."

"No one ever sees him change it, but the words change all the time, like it's connected to his mind."

"Also, if you're sick and you come into work, you get better. Like I had a flu, and I dragged myself into work, and the instant I walked in the door, I felt better. It was completely gone. The flu was gone."

"So that's what you need to know," said Erik. "Any other questions?"

"Errr," said Craig. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Autumn:**

Aziraphale was working at his desk with his laptop and two monitors. Crowley leaned over him from behind and nuzzled his ear. 

"Kids have gone home for the night," said Crowley. He traced his fingers through the curls at the base of the angel's neck. 

Aziraphale sighed in frustration. 

"I'm sorry. I need to have this done for my meeting in Oslo tomorrow."

"S'okay," said Crowley. "It's only eight. I'll find something to do. He reached out his hand over the desk to touch the cup of tea that was sitting, forgotten, on the far side of a pile of notes. "Ouch," he said. "Angel, your tea is still hot." 

"Mmmmhmmm," said Aziraphale. He was scrolling his way through a legal document. 

Crowley walked around to Aziraphale's side and put his hand on the angel's shoulder. He waited for the angel to look up at him before he spoke again.

"Sweetheart," said Crowley, "How long ago did you pour it?"

"I honestly don't remember."

"But it's still steaming." 

"Yes," said Aziraphale, "I know." He tried to return to his work, but Crowley pulled Aziraphale's chair around to face him. He dropped down into a crouch so that he could look Aziraphale in the eyes.

"Sweetheart I'm telling you that I didn't keep it warm for you," said Crowley. "I think this means that your old abilities are coming back."

Aziraphale gave him a gentle smile. "No darling, nothing's changed at all." The angel shrugged. "I just finally figured out that self-care can be an act of love."

"Explain," said Crowley. "Just a couple months you were complaining to me about your tea."

"Well, the problem was that at that time I was still approaching it from a position of entitlement. As I've gotten more practiced at keeping my temper under control, I've been finding that anything truly worth doing can be done as an act of love. I've actually not had a problem with any miracle in weeks."

"Well," said Crowley. "That's a relief." He stood up. He nodded. "I'm really glad. Wow." He ran his hands through his hair. "This is very good." He started to pace as he talked. "It's much safer if I'm not only one who can do all the kinds of miracles we might need. I was honestly a little worried about what might happen to us when Hell finally got around to cutting me off."

Aziraphale laughed merrily. "I don't think you need to worry about that at all my dear."

"I will admit," Crowley said, "You gave Hell a really good scare with your bathtub shenanigans. But I've gotten in the habit of planning for the worst, and it has always served me well. Why are you smirking?"

"Crowley, I'm nearly certain that you've already been cut off for quite some time."

"I would have noticed, Angel. I haven't had a single hiccup in any of my demonic miracles." 

"And what 'demonic miracles' have these been?", said Aziraphale. 

"Well, three times this month I have gotten us last minute orchestra seats at West End shows. And dinner reservations. You know how it is at this time of year. Powerful demonic magic, that."

"Or," said Aziraphale, "Perhaps just acts of love?"

"Er?"

"Crowley," said the angel, "Every single miracle that I can remember you doing, going back for at least a year, has been something you've done for me or for one of the humans. Every single one of them. And therefore, every one of your miracles has been an act of love."

"Angel, don't be ridiculous."

"Give me a single counterexample," said Aziraphale. "Go on."

Crowley raised one finger. He opened his mouth as if he was about to speak. Then he closed it. He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth again. Then he sighed and closed his mouth again. He pressed his fist against his lips and narrowed his eyes in concentration and studied the wall. Finally he shook his head in defeat.

"Your source is the same as mine," said Aziraphale. "You just never noticed the change because you never tried to do any miracles that weren't motivated by love."

"You sure about this?"

"Quite sure."

"Oh." The erstwhile demon looked down at his feet. "Clever angel." 


	26. Blessed are the Peacemakers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's Epilogue

Aziraphale was nearly home at last. He was flying lower now that he was over London. The air was cold, but he was keeping mostly warm thanks to a miracle, and he had a rather large piece of Crowley with him to keep him company. He wondered how his husband even had managed to run the office this past week with so much of his soul on another continent. 

_Where are you now?, _asked Crowley.

"I'm just over Regent's Park. Should be there in a tick."

_At last. This one was too much. I've missed you horribly. _

"Me too. Eight nights is an awfully long time."

_Roof lights are on. _

"Yes. I can see them now. Going to have to concentrate a bit."

_Land safe. See you in two minutes. _

Aziraphale dropped lower. A giant arrow on the roof of the annex pointed the way to his landing spot on top of the book store. Aziraphale had initially complained about how garish the arrow was, but, at this moment, with the fog creeping in, he had to admit to himself that it was a real help. When Crowley had first proposed having it made, Aziraphale had thought that it was a waste of money. It was summer at the time, and he was sure that he didn't need any extra help finding his way. But after the first time he lost his way at night and had to make an emergency landing at the British Museum, Aziraphale had come around to his husband's way of thinking. 

Aziraphale touched down on top of the bookshop, right in the middle of the rooftop garden. He nearly tripped on a little tricycle, and he made a mental note to remind the staff to stow the daycare's toys away from the center of his landing zone. He shook the ice crystals out of his wings as best he could before opening the door to the upper hallway of the annex. The lights were already on in the hall, and, there, leaning against the wall, was his husband. 

Crowley didn't say a word. He wrapped Aziraphale up in his arms, as much as he could, considering the wings, and he kissed him soundly. There was no need for him to stop kissing to come up for air, and he flooded Aziraphale's mind with his thoughts as his hands and lips roamed all over him.

_I've missed you. How I've missed you. Eight days. I've missed your lips. I've missed your eyes. I've missed the smell of your hair. I've missed the crook of your neck. I've missed your shoulders. I've missed your hands. I've missed your belly. I've missed putting my hands on your arse. I've missed the sound of your voice in the mornings. I've missed your warmth at night. I spent every night cuddling your pillow. I couldn't do a blessed thing all day today just knowing that you were coming home tonight. You are so--_

Crowley pulled back and looked the angel in the eyes and shook his head in disappointment. 

_"_Angel, your skin is too cold," said Crowley "And your hair is damp. You should have taken better care of yourself on your flight home._" _

Crowley led Aziraphale by the hand down the stairway to the second floor where the annex connected to the bookshop.

"Don't you even think of putting your wings away wet," said Crowley. "Come on. Let's get you to the bookshop where it's warm."

"It's good to be home," said Aziraphale. "I'm sorry it's been so awful for you. Maybe this time I took too much of you with me?"

Crowley stopped in the hall a few paces from the spot where the annex connected to the upper floor of the bookshop. He took Aziraphale's hands and looked into his eyes. They could both hear the humans chattering, just around the corner. In the privacy of their minds, Crowley spoke. 

_Never say that you take too much from me. You can never take too much of me. Taking care of you is my whole reason for living. I wanted to be with you in the States. Wouldn't have missed sharing it with you for the world. I managed just fine splitting my attention. I just didn't do anything too complicated while you were gone. Barely talked to anyone. Pretended to take a lot of naps. The humans didn't even notice. They think I'm flaky anyway. _

Aziraphale kissed Crowley. He leaned against him. He listened to the sounds of the humans around the corner, and he tried to find the energy to want to deal with them. 

_You don't have to, you know_, thought Crowley. _Just head into the flat. I'll tell them you can't do it tonight._

Aziraphale sighed. 

_That was a really long flight, _thought Crowley._ Please don't wear yourself out. _

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes. Wearing himself out was what he did a lot of these days, and they both knew it. But the staff had stayed after hours in order to catch a glimpse of him, and talking to them for a few minutes was the least he could do.

When they rounded the corner, Aziraphale saw nine humans, with their laptops, arrayed on the sofas and easy chairs that ringed the railing of the the atrium on the second floor. These pieces of furniture were, Crowley had assured him, the new favorite working spots for all the younger members of staff. They liked the view down to the first floor, and on nights like this, they liked to be able to see Aziraphale come in from his trips. 

Crowley led Aziraphale in by the hand as if he was presenting a young performer on a stage. Then he stepped behind his angel as a gentle applause broke out. 

The humans always applauded when Aziraphale came home. They liked the wings. Even if the wings were heavy and damp and exhausted. Nine sets of human eyes attended to every small movement that Aziraphale's wings made as his tired muscles stretched and worked out the kinks. After their applause died down the humans became breathlessly silent as they strained to hear the tiny fluttering noises of feathers moving against feathers. They exchanged excited little glances with each other. Aziraphale expended a small miracle to keep his face from turning pink. 

Aziraphale made a slow circuit of the atrium, going from human to human and taking their hands and greeting each one of them by name. He tried to be gracious. He tried to ignore the feeling of being stared at. The humans meant well. He knew that. As he made his way around the atrium, Aziraphale chanced to look down to the first floor. He saw Crowley's sofa, his "office", and saw the title card pinned at the end of the sofa. It said "Crowley: Morale Officer and On-site Massage Therapy." Aziraphale caught Crowley's eye across the room and smirked. 

_I've got a hot bath waiting for you in the flat. I plan to see to those wings while you soak. And I made you this._ Crowley held up a steaming mug. 

Aziraphale finished his circuit and returned to sit on an ottoman that Crowley had pulled directly under one of the ceiling mounted heating vents. He draped his wings off of the back of the ottoman, felt the warm breeze ripple over his damp feathers, and gratefully accepted a mug of cocoa and a lap blanket from his husband. Crowley disappeared from his view for a moment; A warm hand pressed between his wings and filled him with a relaxing heat. He felt his muscles softening and his wings settling more comfortably against his back. Then Crowley joined the little crowd that was forming in front of him. Some of the humans were sitting on the floor, others were jostling over space on the sofa or helping each other to carry the easy chairs over to make a ring around the angel.

Aziraphale took a sip of his hot cocoa while he waited for the humans to arrange themselves. The cocoa was, thankfully, made with a base that was more whiskey than milk. He flashed a little look of gratitude at Crowley, who was at the back of the crowd, leaning against one of the stone columns that ringed the atrium. 

_You're welcome_, Crowley replied. 

Aziraphale felt a stab of guilt at enjoying food in front of a person who hadn't eaten anything in eight days. He apologized with his eyes even as he enjoyed it, and he shared as much of the taste as he could with the bit of Crowley that was inside him. 

Crowley shrugged and the corners of his eyes flashed a tiny sad smile. 

_It was a little hard, _Crowley admitted. _ I had to just get up and head to the flat when they delivered the food for the Friday social. I couldn't face smelling it and watching them all enjoy it and having to stand there all by myself with nothing to do. _He gave Aziraphale a fond smile. _But I missed You so much more than I missed food._

"You two are doing it again," said Hannah. "You do realize that you aren't talking out loud, right?"

Crowley snorted at the human. "Too bad," he said. "We get to have private conversations." Then, just to spite the human, he blew a kiss to Aziraphale._ You are so beautiful with your wings out._

The angel blushed. _ Crowley, why did you do that? _He thought. _ Now I've forgotten what I was going to say._

Aziraphale racked his brains. What could he say that would even be interesting? 

_Come on Aziraphale,_ thought the angel to himself. _Buck up. _

_They'll love anything you say, _Crowley reminded him._ You could read a menu aloud and they'd love it. _

Aziraphale looked at the humans. They were all staring at him. He had to say something. 

"Ahem," said the angel. "Um. Well. The first thing I should say is that my hosts in Indiana were very lovely. Many of them were kind enough to take the time to personally explain things to me." 

Aziraphale looked up and realized that Crowley was recording him with his phone. He flinched. 

_It's important_, thought Crowley._ I recruited another angel this week. I showed her the recording of the things you said last month about Heaven and she had been thinking the same things, and that's what convinced her to defect. _

Aziraphale nodded. Then he took a deep breath and adjusted himself so that he faced the camera. Crowley thanked him with a little crinkle of his eye and a tiny nod. 

Aziraphale paused. Crowley could tell that the angel was nervous. The angel hated public speaking. Crowley felt a little guilty for having wrong footed him with his compliment. Crowley took a few deliberate slow breaths, and he felt Aziraphale's body calm down in sympathy with him. 

_Just talk for five minutes or so, _thought Crowley_. Don't wear yourself out, okay?_

"Well," said Aziraphale, "I don't think I am quite prepared to do justice to the many things I learned about how one promotes stable peaceful societies. It's quite complicated and um...."

"It's okay," said Hannah. "What could the Americans possibly know that Oxford doesn't?"

"Yeah," said Rayan, "I'm sure Notre Dame is too preoccupied with their sports teams to develop their academic departments like we have."

Aziraphale panicked. This was all going wrong. Having the humans engage in tribal bickering about which peace studies department was best was the exact opposite of what Aziraphale wanted for tonight's discussion. He had learned so many interesting new things, but his body was tired and he couldn't seem to organize his thoughts. In the past months, with his full self-hood restored to him, Aziraphale found himself able to do so many things that he had never dared before. But even he had his limits. After eight days of forcing his introverted self through conversations with strangers, and then a winter flight over the North Atlantic, Aziraphale was running low on bravery. But he had to get through this. 

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. Crowley was the bravest person he knew. 

_What do I say?,_ thought the angel.

_Just follow your heart, Angel. It will never steer you wrong. _

Aziraphale looked around at the humans. They were staring up at him with awe and trust. They saw his white wings, and they thought he must have some extra special goodness in his soul. But Aziraphale knew from sad experience that most humans were better people than angels were. For six thousand years, Aziraphale had helped Heaven plot to destroy humanity. He'd let the flood happen because he hadn't dared to disobey. He'd only barely stopped Armageddon, and only because Crowley convinced him to. What could he possibly have to tell the humans about peace? 

Aziraphale's breath hitched a little when he finally realized what needed to say. 

"I think that all of you should know," said the angel, "That about thirteen years ago, I was part of a vast organization that was plotting to kill all of you." 

Aziraphale looked at the humans arrayed at his feet and in chairs in front of him. They seemed very confused. 

Crowley was confused too._ That is not what I expected you to say, Angel._

_It will be fine. I'm following my heart._

Aziraphale took a deep breath and tried again. "You've only gotten to know me as I am now, and so you see me as a kind hearted angel that would never hurt you. But not very long ago, I was planning to participate in a holy war right in the middle of your world. I thought that defeating those that I saw as irredeemably evil was more important than all of your lives."

The humans' eyes were widening a little bit. Some of them were drawing back a bit from the angel. 

"You should be scared," said the angel. "I'm not exaggerating. That's who I was. I honestly believed that destroying all of you was necessary and inevitable. I believed it was the only way. I saw myself as a soldier of heaven. My commitment to that identity led me to believe that I couldn't question or refuse to do anything that my 'people' told me to do. Even if it meant the end of the world for everyone."

_You don't have to say such terrible things about yourself, _thought Crowley._ That's not who you are. That's who THEY were. Not you. Them._

"I was part of them," said Aziraphale. "My identity was wrapped up in being part of Heaven. That's one of the things that we talked about this week at the conference. Identity. We have these identities, and they are so powerful. They make us feel so proud and so sure of ourselves. We become what they tell us to be. And, sometimes, as in my case, when someone doesn't share our identity, that person becomes the enemy, and we feel compelled to convert them or destroy them."

Aziraphale's voice got a little quieter. "Even if that someone is a dear friend," he said. 

_I've long ago forgiven you for that, _thought Crowley.

Aziraphale didn't even pause. He just kept on with his public confession. "I am ashamed to say that I nearly let the entire Earth perish because of my rigid commitment to my identity."

_You were afraid, _thought Crowley,_ And your fears got the better of you for a few hours towards the end._ _And Heaven was so controlling and cruel. _

Aziraphale looked directly at Crowley and his thoughts rang in Crowley's mind like a gong. 

_You think that being controlled by others doesn't happen to humans?, _thought Aziraphale._ It happens all the time. You think they aren't as afraid as I was? This is what we are trying to stop. This fracturing along lines of identity. It's fear. And that is something I understand all too well. I'm no better than they are. And I shan't pretend to be._

"But you didn't let the Earth perish," said Erik, breaking the silence. 

"No," said Aziraphale. "I didn't."

"Why not?", asked Hannah. 

_Because you were brave,_ thought Crowley. _ Because you let yourself love me._

"The reason I was able to choose to do something that contradicted my identity as a member of Heaven is because I also had other identities. I was also a Defender of Eden, an Earth-dweller, a bibliophile, an epicurian, a theatre-goer, and an Englishman,"

_English angel really_, thought Crowley. 

Aziraphale smiled. "And I was lucky enough to have a friendship with a person who reminded me that I had more than one identity." 

_Please don't tell them it's me,_ thought Crowley. He was turning red. The humans didn't notice. They were too enthralled by the angel sitting in front of them. 

"Each of us contains multitudes," said the angel. "We are many things at the same time, and we have the ability to choose which identities are most important to us in each particular moment. It lets us be flexible. It lets us make choices that help us avoid violence."

_Thanks,_ thought Crowley. 

_I know how much you hate being the center of attention,_ replied Aziraphale. 

_Yeah._

"Now we aren't yet sure what our enemies have in store for us, but we know that staying united and refusing to be tricked into destroying each other is going to be critical to defending ourselves and protecting Earth."

_I do not believe, _thought Aziraphale,_ that you hate being the center of attention nearly as much as I do, and yet you are hiding behind a camera in the back and I'm here._

_You are way more photogenic than me. Everyone likes you. _

"Something to keep in mind," said Aziraphale. 

Crowley smirked. He loved his witty angel. 

" ...is that it is easy to undervalue peacemaking," the angel continued. "I've noticed that many human cultures seem to think that the highest ideal of courage, especially for those that see themselves as male, is to wreak violence upon their enemies." 

_The reason they don't like you, _thought Aziraphale,_ is because you don't let them get to know you._

"I want you all to know," said Aziraphale "That one of the most courageous acts that I have witnessed in my long life was when I saw a certain person choose to put his life at risk by reaching out to his enemy and offering a path to peace."

_Don't you dare say my name. _

"We need to value these brave peace makers," said Aziraphale

_No Angel. No._

"We need to tell their stories."

_No. Please Angel. Not tonight._

"Otherwise the stories of revenge, glory and violence will be the only ones we hear."

_I'm begging you. Don't say my name._

"Now everyone," said Aziraphale. He looked Crowley square in the eye. "I'm not sure if you realize...." 

_Please for the love of all things unholy. NO. NO. NO._

".... how very late the hour is," said the angel. "Thank you all for staying late to meet me when I came in. Your support does mean so much to me. I do hope that you all take the morning off tomorrow and catch up on your rest."

Crowley wilted. He stopped recording. He turned off his phone and slipped it into his back pocket. 

_See,_ thought Aziraphale. _I didn't tell a soul that you are a good person. Your secret is safe._

_You bastard,_ replied Crowley.

Aziraphale smiled with his eyes and wriggled his nose. _You wouldn't want me any other way. _

"All right everyone," said Crowley. "Good work today. Time to go home. You heard the angel. I don't want to see any of you before noon tomorrow. I promise, I won't let him out of the flat before lunchtime, so you won't miss anything interesting." He spread his arms wide and beat at the air. "Now get out of here!" 

The humans scrambled to pack up their computers. They started to make their way down the stairs to the ground floor. When Rayan and Erik paused on the staircase to talk, Crowley appeared behind them.

"There are three night time coffee shops in this neighborhood," said Crowley. "And this isn't one of them. Chat somewhere else. Go." 

Crowley returned to where Aziraphale was sitting on the ottoman. He stood behind his angel protectively, daring any human to talk to Aziraphale. His eyes were on the humans. His hands were on the angel's wings. His fingers found a damaged feather and he absentmindedly started to fix it, tiny automatic motions of his fingers working outward from the center shaft, pulling barbs together to close the split. 

Aziraphale accepted the preening. He closed his eyes. He listened to the sounds of the humans putting on their jackets and opening and closing the front door. He felt safe. He was with Crowley.

For 6000 years Aziraphale had been alone. He had been full of righteousness, sure of who he was and what he was doing. Now, every day he woke up in Crowley's world. It was a world full of questions that didn't have easy answers, and actions that couldn't be classified as simply "Good" or "Evil." It took a great deal of courage to live in Crowley's world. But that was exactly where Aziraphale wanted to be. 

Aziraphale reached up, over his own head, between his wings, towards his husband. Crowley took the angel's hand and held it. When the little bell over the shop door rang to say that the last human had exited the shop, Crowley loosened his grip on Aziraphale's hand just slightly so that he could lock the door with a wave of two of his fingers. Then he wrapped his fingers around Aziraphale's and held on all the tighter. He buried his face in the angel's hair and closed his eyes. 

They stayed like that for a few minutes, enjoying the silence.

"Come on, Angel," said Crowley at last. "Let's get you home."

"No need to move yet," said Aziraphale. "I already am home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are some real life peace research institutes. These are places where you can actually get a PhD in Peace and Conflict studies. Lots of universities offer master's degrees in the same. These are, of course, all English speaking resources. (Please do comment if there are significant ones you feel should be added to this list)
> 
> https://www.warandpeace.ox.ac.uk/centres-and-programmes/oxpeace Oxford, UK
> 
> https://kroc.nd.edu/ph-d/ Notre Dame, US 
> 
> https://carrcenter.hks.harvard.edu/ Harvard University, US 
> 
> https://www.peaceconflictresearch.org/ Peace Research Institute Oslo, Norway
> 
> https://www.otago.ac.nz/ncpacs/index.html University of Otago, New Zealand
> 
> And if you are looking for religious leaders promoting peace internationally:
> 
> https://parliamentofreligions.org/ 
> 
> Of course, the UN
> 
> https://www.un.org/
> 
> https://www.gpplatform.ch/resources Geneva Peacebuilding Platform


	27. A Place at the Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's Epilogue

Aziraphale wanted to create a family friendly work environment, and since he was gone so much of the time, the job of implementing the plan fell to Crowley. He was already annexing the second and third floors of an adjoining building for office space, so he reserved two of the rooms on the third floor for a nursery school for the children of the staff. The contractors who were working on those rooms very quickly came to fear Crowley. At night, in the privacy of his flat, Crowley agonized over every detail of the nursery school, from the heating and the lighting to the flooring and the windows. He carefully selected child sized wooden furniture and he brought in his favorite artist all the way from Scotland to paint an animal mural on the walls. 

The nearest substantial park being many blocks away, Crowley insisted on converting the roof of the bookshop into a garden for the nursery school. He installed a high wall around the edge of the roof, both for safety and to keep the traffic noises out, and he filled the garden with tricycles and a sandbox and a wide variety of carefully chosen child friendly plants, which he tended every day. 

The day care took care of two infants and five kids aged toddler to preschooler. Crowley only hired two staffers because each of the parents came up to help out for an hour a day, and a lot of the other employees stopped by too. Crowley himself had a standing appointment to read to the children at circle time once a week. The teacher liked to have a special story reader every day; It let her prepare the after circle snack in peace. She liked to get all the food out onto the low table before the story was even finished. That was her secret to keeping things organized. Thursdays were Crowley's day to read. 

Every Thursday at ten AM, Crowley would leave his couch office and come up to the third floor of the annex and sit with the children on a big rug that was covered in all the letters of the alphabet from A is for Apple to Z is for Zebra. There was always much discussion about which letter each child would sit on, and he never rushed them. The teacher would hand Crowley the word of the day, written on a big piece of white cardstock, and he and the children would puzzle over it until finally, with great ceremony, Crowley would read it aloud. They would talk about the special word and then he would read the book of the day.

Crowley never wore his sunglasses around the children. They all loved his "funny eyes." They liked the voices he did for all the stories and how he always made sure that everyone had a good look at the pictures before he moved to the next page. 

Today's word was "computer", and the book was about a chicken and a computer and the world of 0's and 1's. Snacks were a little more involved than usual today, because the snack was themed. Little round pretzels were the "0"'s and apples carefully peeled and sliced into little sticks were the "1"'s. The slicing had taken overlong, and the story finished before the snack could be set upon the low table. Crowley finished the story just as the teacher was carrying the tray of little cups of milk out of the kitchen. 

One of the boys ran toward the snack area, bashed into teacher's legs, and toppled the whole tray of milk onto himself. The child was instantly soaked and sobbing. 

The teacher looked up at Crowley with pleading eyes. It had sort of been his fault. He shouldn't have dismissed circle time until the table was completely set. 

"Yeah," said Crowley. "You take him to the toilet. I'll feed this lot." 

"I'll come back and clean up the spill on the floor after I'm done with changing Connor," said the teacher. "There's extra cups for each of the children on second shelf. Half full only. Put the milk out first, and then sit with them while they eat so nobody chokes."

"Got it," said Crowley. 

No child would dare to choke around Crowley, but he did as he was bid. He got the kids settled around their little table and singing a song about a bus, while he poured the fresh milk into a fresh set of little cups. Two of the cups had complicated lids with funny rubber valves. It turned out that the rubber bands on the outsides of the lidded cups were the color code that was supposed to let him know which cup went to which child. There was a near disaster when Owen (aged two and a half) nearly drank from the sippy cup belonging to Evelyn, but the other kids shouted and Crowley switched the sippy cups just in time. 

Crowley grabbed the bowls of food from the kitchen and also five little plates. He set a plate down in front of each child, and he put a plate and cup out for Connor as well. Then he walked around the table giving exactly the same number of circle shaped pretzels and little apple slivers to each child. He set the bowls of pretzels and apple slivers down in the center of the table. Then he folded himself into a tiny chair, his knees sticking up over the edge of the table, and tried to keep things under control while he waited for the teacher to return. 

The first minute went perfectly fine. They talked about computers. 

"Computers are filled with Zeros and Ones," explained Fiona, aged four and a half, "Because they go together. It's blinary. My dad says." 

Crowley was nodding to encourage her precociousness. He did love clever humans so. But while he was talking to Fionna, he wasn't scanning the rest of the table for trouble. Thus, Evelyn, aged eighteen months, stuck her apple sliver into the ear of Mia, aged four. Mia was a very tactilely sensitive child, with a notoriously short temper, and she screeched and nearly decked the toddler. Mia was heading for a meltdown, and Crowley feared her meltdowns. 

"Little Evelyn doesn't understand yet," said Crowley. "She's small, no need to yell at her."

He straightened out one leg, pulled the toddler onto his thigh, and balancing her with one hand, dragged her little plate and cup in front of him. Now Evelyn couldn't reach anything but her own food. He pinned her against his belly with his arm, searched in vain for the teacher, and then resigned himself to refereeing the debate between Mia and Fiona about whether grown ups are allowed to drink tea while using the computer. 

Evelyn squirmed and wriggled in his lap. She picked up her pretzels and licked the salt off of them and then turned around and tried to feed them to Crowley. 

"He doesn't want licked pretzels, that's gross," said Fionna.

"It's not gross if you just lick your own," said Mia. She put her pretzel on her finger and started licking it.

"Is so. Only babies lick their food. You still lick your food so you must still be a baby," said Fionna.

Mia looked ready for a meltdown again. 

Crowley turned to speak to Fiona, whereupon a fat little hand, sticky with juice, stuck itself into his open mouth. He gently removed the little fingers, but there was still something there. Something solid and sweet and shaped like a little stick. 

"Papple," said the child in his lap. She looked deeply into his eyes and nodded. "Papple," Evelyn said, and she patted his cheek. Then she turned toward her plate again. 

Crowley's eyes and his mouth watered at the same time. The piece of apple was solid and it was sweet and it was in his own mouth and it hadn't fallen apart into dust and he didn't understand it at all. When had it happened? How? And there was no time to wonder, because the plump little hand was pressing a damp pretzel to his lips and he needed to decide what to do. 

"Ezzel," said Evelyn. And Crowley opened his mouth. 

The pretzel was damp and stale and sticky and half the salt had already been licked off. It was nothing like the feasts that Aziraphale had given to him, but it was bread, and it was still bread after it had passed his lips. Crowley was in his own body, breaking bread with human people. He trembled a little. If it weren't for the sweet heaviness of the contented toddler on his leg, he might have started to shake apart, but she was smiling up at him, stuffing a piece of apple into her own mouth, and then touching his lips with her sticky fingers. 

"Why Crawlee sad?", asked Owen.

"He's crying because he doesn't like the licked ones," said Fiona. She handed him a fresh pretzel from the bowl at the center of the table. "Here. Don't be sad."

" M' not sad," said Crowley, wiping at his eyes. And he took the pretzel from her and he ate it. 

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you layr for being super supportive. Thank you OrigamiMarie, Devilchild101, Himenka, SoulMore, camcamgirl, Torta_di_carote, FantasyTLou, burns_erin, Luthe and sburbanite for checking in so often. Thank you everyone else who commented. You all really helped me keep going! I had a really great time writing this, and knowing that you were out there cheering me on has made it even more fun. 
> 
> Thank you to lucime for speaking up and gently educating me when my tags were inappropriate. 
> 
> Thank you to my amazing partner whose devotion and love is my model for Crowley. 
> 
> Thank you to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett for giving us this amazing GO world to explore. Thank you to David Tennant and Michael Sheen and Doug Mackinnon and all the casting directors and set dressers and prop people and CGI people who chose to make GO so friendly to queer folk and to the Aziraphale/Crowley ship.


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